Shades of Grey, Book I: The Oncoming Storm
by Wired Dragoon
Summary: The year is 993 NE. Injured, with fractured memories, a man awakens in the chaotic times before the Dragon Reborn's appearance... PLEASE R&R!    Now Continued in "Shades of Grey, Book II: Dances the Shadow"!
1. In Darkness, a Beginning

**Chapter 1**

**In Darkness, a Beginning**

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the early weeks of winter. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. This time, in darkness, there was _a_ beginning.

His head hurt like hell. That was the first thought that shot through his mind after his thoughts emerged from the state of unconsciousness he must have had fallen into. Why? Yes, why? He did not remember the reason. In fact, the haze of his disordered thoughts revealed there was a lot he did not remember, and panic crept into him as he laid still with his eyes closed. A name! Damn it, he needed a name. No, he needed _his_ name. Forcing himself to breath slowly despite his racing heartbeat he tried to listen into his mind. There were pictures that passed him by in a fog of colours and meaning, but he forced himself to concentrate, to dig, to search. His breath slowed down, as did his heartbeat, and despite the pain in his head a semblance of order seemed to return to the sounds and pictures in his mind. He waited some more, his face feeling the hard and piercing ground he rested on.

'No panic. Remain calm. Wait. Everything will be all right. You know who you are, don't you?' he asked himself, trying to reassure himself, and much to his surprise a name came up in his mind.

Genda.

Tarmion Genda.

It sounded familiar. No, more than that. It sounded _right_. He sent a silent prayer to whoever was watching over him and felt himself ease a bit. Well, that was a start. Now to the rest of it. He tried to concentrate, but all that came back to him was a blur of pictures and sounds that made little sense to him as he was.

Carefully, he tried to raise and turn his head so he could open his eyes without piercing his eyeballs on the rocky ground. The reaction was a sudden increase in the pain in his head. It had the same effect as if a madman was hammering against a set of huge bronze bells in his head, and it made him feel quite giddy. On the good side, he also felt his limbs and muscles, so what ever had happened had at least not paralysed him. He pulled his arms forward so he could press himself up easier, and decided to it another try.

Fuckin' hell, he was a grown man! A damn headache could not pin him to the ground. Or so he kept telling himself as he struggled with the pain and dizziness to at least get to his knees.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in what seemed to be a natural cavern. There was a fallow light with no obvious origin that put the place into a strange twilight. Tarmion rested like this for a few further moments until he felt secure enough to use his hands for something else but pillars to rest on. The pain was still there, but he realized that with ample concentration he could keep the dizziness at bay. His hand came back wet as he touched the back of his head, and what he had touched felt too soft for him to ease his concerns. The light made it not easy to discern colours, but given his state Tarmion had no doubts that the dark substance that now stuck to his fingers was blood, his blood. For brief moments his heart began to race again, and his hands trembled.

What the hell had happened? As if to mock his question the hammering pain came back in full. He bent over and had to empty his stomach. Gasping for breath he remained like this for some time, bowing over a pool of his own vomit, moaning, until he came to his senses again. He had no idea how much time had passed since whatever had happened that had left him here and he had awoken. Still, through the pain and the insecurity as a rational thought crept back into his mind: he was wounded, and he needed help. He had to find somebody – anybody.

"Hello?"

His voice sounded dry and raspy.

"Is there anybody who can hear me?"

There was no answer but an echo clanging back from the walls of the cave. Accepting his fate, he finally pushed himself to his feet, placing his arm against the rocks to steady himself. The small cavern had two exits were it shrunk to narrow passageways, but neither of them gave any indication whether it would lead outside. After a moment of hesitation, he took the one to his left. It was as good as the other one.

The corridors were natural, winding up and down, left and right in no particular pattern, widening into little caverns from time to time, then again shrinking to holes hardly allowing himself to crawl through. Here and there amethysts and other coloured stones peaked through the grey stone surface, adding to the already surreal atmosphere of the place. The prevalence of the strange, blueish light uneased him. It seemed to come from nowhere, even though he told himself he was moving towards its origin. Also, it was rather warm in here. He knew – where from, he ironically did _not_ know or remember – that caves usually were rather damp places, often formed by water as much as by the earth itself. Yet here a warm and dry breeze blew.

He had been making his way towards the light long enough at that point that his legs had begun to hurt. His throat was dry, and his mouth tasted still like the mix of gall and blood he had vomited before. Taking a rest and falling asleep again started to look like a promising option again. He was tired, wounded and, yes, afraid. He rested his head on the wall, almost ready to sit down and embrace sleep when he heard it. A murmur, soft, still far away, going up and down like a sing-sang he could not – yet – understand. It was not much. He was not even certain whether this was not just his head playing tricks on him, but for now, it was a destination.

It seemed to take him forever. The path wound up and down and up again only to finally end in a long and soft sloping bend to the left, exposing the origin of the murmuring sounds he had heard. He stepped forward into a long cavern, easily fifteen metres wide and just as high as that. Three natural stone pillars cast dim shadows, and he carefully stepped into one of them.

He was no longer alone. In the centre of this cave a middle-aged man was singing and dancing. He wore robes of green and white that once must have been rich and elaborate, and golden jewellery and a necklace with an amulet with two interleaving circles of white and black. And his voice sent shivers down his spine.

"_I'll sew myself, a shirt, of flesh_

_so warm, so nice, so fine, so fresh._

_My needles - fair and hot - I've shown,_

_my shirt now needs a broach of bone._

_I sing, I slaughter, cry, I dance,_

_like puppets I make bodies dance._

_My love, so fair, her hair of gold,_

_I ripped her spine, her skull I hold..._"

With strange fascination he watched the man dance around without any rhythm, singing his haunting tune.

He stopped in the middle of another bounce, balancing on one foot, then looked down on himself. His eyes cast off the veil that had covered them, he saw his bloodstained robes and began to tremble.

"_Seaina, what have I done?_" his tormented cry turned into a howl as his own hands tore at the flesh of his face as if trying to claw away a rediscovered memory. After his fingers had left deep scratches all over him, he slowly stopped and his moans turned into sobbing.

"_Why cannot the Shadow erase me for what I've done. Done to her. Done to them – done to the world!_" His voice rapidly changed from mourning to angry, and he rose again. _„I curse you, Lews Therin Telamon. Do you hear me! I CURSE YOU! You brought that upon us, not me. NOT ME!_"

Suddenly, as if he had heard some noise, he stopped his rant and raised his listening.

"_Is there anybody?_" He waited for a response, and Tarmion drew himself further back into the shadows, afraid, adrenalin rushing through his veins.

"_I heard you! You hear me? I heard you!_" Agitated, he rushed forward – right towards where Tarmion was. When he stopped on his heels, his head was less than an arm's reach away from him. Tarmion's heart almost stopped. But the man did not see him. He looked him into the eyes... and looked right through him. After a moment that seemed to Tarmion likes ages, he just turned around again as if nothing had ever happened and walked back to the center of the cavern. He looked at his bloodstained hands in disgust.

"_It was your hands that burned them, that made me kill her... oh Seaina, love of my life. The blood is on my hands, but _you_ are the killer, Lews Therin!_" he yelled in agony and frustration. And without a pause he broke into a roaring laughter before he resumed his song.

"_I'll sew myself, a shirt, of flesh_

_so warm, so nice, so fine..._"

Two human skulls appeared. He held them by their hair and raised them to the level of his face, looking into their lifeless eyes and open mouths.

"_They don't talk to me any more. Why does nobody talk to me?_" He threw them to the ground an stomped his foot like a child, sniffing his nose. "_I'm bored_. _I want to play now._"

Then, suddenly, as if he had never existed at all, he was gone.

Tarmion, only then realizing he had held his breath for the longest part of that strange episode he just had witnessed, sighed deeply. What he had just seen had been disquieting in more than the very obvious way of a madman appearing out of in disappearing again into thin air. _Lews Therin Telamon_. _The Wheel of Time_. He could not give any reasons for it, but he suddenly was very certain that he did not belong here. It felt... wrong, just as the flash of insight telling him his name had felt right.

And yet, what choices did he have? Wounded, alone, frightened and displaced, all he could do now was set one foot before another and hope to see the end of it alive. Staggering forward again, he accepted his fate and made his way to the other side of the natural dome.

He had almost reached the part were it narrowed like a funnel again when he spotted the blond shock of hair of a small boy peaking at him from behind of one of the pillars.

"Is Caran gone?" he whispered carefully, searching the dome with frightened eyes.

Baffled by yet another strange appearance, Tarmion just answered him.

"The mad dancing man?"

"Yes, the singer. My mother says Caran Tureed is a bad man, and we should not go near him. What's your name?"

"I'm… . My name is Tarmion. What do you do down here?" he asked, doubting whether the boy was real or just a figment of his imagination, a result of his injuries.

"Hello, I'm Sero." The boy stopped in front of him, looking up at him sceptically. "You don't look good. I think we best go to mommy, she can certainly help you." He grabbed the grown man by the hand and started going.

Tarmion just followed him like in trance, simply being overwhelmed by the quite otherworldly experience. Blood-splattered madmen, little boys appearing out of thin air… maybe the hit on the head had driven him insane. He yielded up to whatever his fate might be and kept pace with the boy, never loosing touch with his hand. He _felt_ real enough. Small, with keen blue eyes and wiry arms and legs and a voice full of curiosity, the child - wearing a longsleeved red tunic and trousers of the same colour – did not seem to be some kind of hallucination. None he could discern anyway.

They walked for some time – Tarmion had no idea how long or how far – and the boy, Sero, kept talking and asking questions during it all the time. The path was no better than the ones he had taken before, and he watched the ceiling like a hawk, fearing further injuries to his head. Preoccupied with this he did not realize that the blueish light's intensity had steadily grown during the last minutes of his trip. When he finally walked past a final corner he was greeted with the most bizarre sight he had ever seen.

Sero looked up to him, looked at his open mouth and pointed a finger.

"_Avronfaracaldrelle_," he declared confidently.

It was a name, even though Tarmion had no idea what it meant. Avronfaracaldrelle. Hundreds of houses, all in some state of ruin, covered a soft slope about half a mile in length and width in a huge cave, extending to a height of maybe twenty metres at its highest. On each of the four sides, the city seemed to have continued but had simply been buried under the rocky massif, the foundation walls of some still marking the position of a house where now mostly rubble was. Wide avenues were still recognizable, and here and there Tarmion discovered the remains of vegetation turned into stone. As if a giant hand had taken the city, ripped it from the ground and shoved it into a mountain.

And above all towered, nay, floated, like a miniature sun, a pulsating ball of blueish light. A soft buzz, almost inaudible, followed the sunken city, swelling and going down again with every pulse of light. It was calling him, calling him to come closer, to look, to listen, to feel. Slowly, like sunken in trance, he set one foot down before the other, and before he realized it, he was walking straight through the ruins towards the hypnotizing source of light. It seemed as if Sero was shouting something, but he did not hear him any more. There was only the light, and the soft buzz filling his ears. Neither did he register the scores of skeletons that littered the ruins. The light floated in the centre of the square of ruined buildings. It was calling him. Step by step, he climbed the mound of debris and rubble, ignored the fallen pillars and human remains that all seemed to point away from it, until he stood beneath it, the radiance hurting his eyes.

Under the blueish glow, it had irregular black ad white features and seemed to be rough, not round at all. It was drawing him closer, and inch by inch his outstretched hands came nearer to it, finally touching it. Heat shot through his arms. Tarmion looked surprised. He wanted to scream, wanted to take his hands off the glowing sphere, but he was paralysed. His arms, his whole body felt like liquid fire was racing through it . The buzzing turned into a high-pitched rattle, the pulse got more erratic, the light more blending.

When the intensity was close to blasting his eardrums, with a cracking sound as loud as thunder the world turned white for Tarmion Genda.


	2. Echoes

**Chapter 2**

**Echoes **

_In the beginning, there was light._

_It shone like the sun: warming him…, burning him… , incinerating him… . _

_Setting his mind aflame like a torch would burn a moth, he was… and simultaneously was not. He saw, and heard, and felt, but not with eyes or ears or the fingers on his hands. His spirit was free, floating, flying like an eagle in circles high above the skies. He saw the world as it was, and then as it had been in ancient times, and then as it had been in the ages even preceding those times. Loosing altitude with every round, he caught the sight of continents changing, of seas growing or drying up, of massive forests receding and growing again. _

_The Wheel kept turning, and what had changed before changed again as his spirit circled closer to the ground with every moment. Large cities appeared, huge swaths of land changed from wilderness to farmland, and yet a shadow grew on the horizon, dark, shapeless, just outside the reach of his eyes. _

_Deeper and deeper he flew, his view focussing on the lands beneath him, wide plains and lakes and fields hills with soft slopes. He could make out roads and towns and villages, but a twilight now did cast shadows, and he thought he saw flames in the corners of his eyes. _

_Further and further down he was twirled, and he saw armies marching into battle against beasts and men, he saw men and women throw fire and ice, saw regions being wiped from the patterns of time, and felt a piercing cold crawling through his mind. _

_Deeper, ever closer the Wheel drove him, and the cold changed into dread as it got darker and darker. He wanted to rise again, wanted to flee back into the light, back to the warmth, but the ground approached him ever so fast. His focus fell on a city on the bank of a river whose water had a red taint. Hundreds of neat white houses sat on the soft slopes of half a dozen hills. From the nothingness an angry, hateful howl arose and crashed through the whirling void, echoing in his mind. He felt a sudden wave of nausea flood over him, tainting his view with an oily haze for the brink of a moment. _

_As it passed, his spirit had come so close to the ground that he could see people run around in shock and horror, their eyes widened, their faces masks of desperation. Fires were racing across the land while rocks the sizes of houses, glowing and half-molten thundered from the sky. Tremors threw people off their feet as they tried to escape, but chaos and destruction were everywhere. The water in lakes and rivers alike boiled and evaporated, deep rifts tore the ground apart while fiery mountains rose from former plains. _

_The world was drowning in thunder and flame, and as his spirit was drawn closer to the carnage, a radiant figure manifested in the wide square in the city ablaze with blueish fire. Behind the figure, a large sphere rested on a ornate pillar, and while it still displayed oceans and land en miniature, it now was nestled in a web of pulsing threads originating in the blazing apparition to its feet. They were by far not the only ones. Like raving tentacles hundreds, thousands of them, some thin as a needle, others as wide as a full-grown man erupted from what he could now identify as a man. Laughing and crying at the same time, the man channelled more and more of the One Power. New threads buried themselves deep in the ground, and along a hundred miles molten stone erupted from the ground high into the sky. When the burning avalanche began to fall towards the ground again, the sphere… shifted. The man's gleeful laughter first changed into an angry howl, then, in a tiny moment of clear thoughts, into a frightened wail as he started to loose control over the myriad of threads erupting from him. The sphere began to soak up _saidin_, ripping it from the panicking __madman's grip, and when its radiance was all that was left in Tarmion's spirit, a spark of the One Power ignited it._

With an agonized gasp life began to flow back into Tarmion. His heart started beating again, ever so slowly, a sharp pain in his chest. Spasms gripped his limbs as blood as cold as ice started circulating through his veins again. He was one with the pain. He wished he would die.

For long minutes he rested there in anguish, every fibre of his being racing with pain until a soft warmth replaced the fiery ice in his veins and his breathing steadied again. The air was dull and full of dust, and it seemed he was wrapped in almost complete darkness. Sunken down in a foetal position, he lay on his side, his arms still outstretched and holding something: a fist-sized orb, blacker than the darkest night. As he pulled his arms back towards his chest it slipped his grasp and burst into a small cloud of black dust. He felt weaker, somehow _thinner_ than he had felt before. Struggling to his knees was an exhausting task, but once he stood a longing for sunlight and fresh air replaced the remaining, dull pain.

The eerie light which filled his last memories was gone. Only a tiny shimmer still remained, just enough to mirror itself in the crystals that poked through the rock ceiling a hundred feet above him. Almost complete silence filled the cave. Just his coarse breathing and a soft murmur, like a confused medley of a thousand low voices whispering on the edge of his hearing, remained.

His hand reached for the back of his head, anxious to check out the injury he had suffered. The skin on his fingers was rough and scarred, and instead of a raw flesh or dried blood they touched greasy wisps of long hair. He took a look around. The low twilight slowly took shape as his eyes adapted. He was still in the ruined subterranean city, at the foot of the mound of rubble upon which the pulsing sphere had rested. The city… _Avronfaracaldrelle_. A name from the old tongue. He said it aloud, his throat dry and hoarse.

"Avronfaracaldrelle." The word seemed to bounce back from the ceiling, the 'elle' echoing again and again.

The murmur suddenly swelled, took shape and in a whisper coming from a thousand mouths the words broke into his mind: [The Watch on the Red River].

_The sunrise over the eastern hills always gave the shining white houses the glimmer of the unreal, but those who had lived in city long enough took it for granted just like the air they breathed and the water they drank. Since the war against the Forsaken and the minions of the Dark One had begun the popular holiday resort's population had doubled. Luckily, Avronfaracaldrelle was far away from the front lines – whatever that meant in a war where armies could move through portals and simply bypass hundreds of miles – and had little strategic value to neither of both sides. There were rumours that Lews Therin Telamon had taken the best of the best of his remaining men and a daring attack against Shaiyol Gul was under way. But if it was, no word of its outcome had yet reached the city and the world, and so far the floods of the Caldrelle kept flowing towards the western lakes, taking the red silt from the Hamafarkar with them as it did since the beginning of time._

A shiver ran down his spine when the vivid stream of thoughts and images ended. These were not _his_ thoughts and not _his_ memories! This place was driving him mad, he had to get out of here. The Watch on the Red River. The words still echoed in his mind. He thought he remembered the way he had come down from, even though he could see little more than vague shapes past the few metres that surrounded him.

Cautiously, he started walking over debris and fallen walls. He stepped onto something which broke with a dry 'crack' jerked back uttering a muffled curse. Drawing his foot back from the pale skeleton's ribcage, a weak reflection caught his eye, and he warily knelt down besides the shattered bones. Skin and flesh and clothes had long since changed into dust, and the bones were brittle as fine glass, but metal had stood the test of time in the dry necropolis that Avronfaracaldrelle had turned into very well. It was a small quantity of golden coins. Tarmion picked one up. It was heavy, and showed a roaring dragon on the front and the yin-yang sign of the Aes Sedai on the back. The coinage was formidable even after all the time that must have had passed. Hesitation grabbed him for a moment, then he grabbed the gold and stuffed it into his pockets. He hadn't come here voluntarily, so he could at least get something in return for the haunting experience. The city was a dead place, and he found the next remains only a few metres from the first.

Soon his pockets were full of coins and golden rings and jewelled necklaces and brooches. Greed and a childish glee had gotten the better of him, and he took of his coat and shirt and knotted the latter into an impromptu bag. Not knowing what would await him when – if – he found a way outside it seemed a sensible measure to keep the coat. Prepared with his new bag and with the prospect of lots of treasures to be found in the twilight of the silent ruins, for the first time since he had first awoken Tarmion felt light hearted.

Noticing that the destruction remains of the city became more ruined the closer to the edges he wandered, Tarmion decided to return back to the town square where he had started. The houses closest to it also were in advanced states of ruin as the doom that had emerged from the centre seemed to have shattered them and sucked the debris to it, explaining the mound of rubble Tarmion had climbed before his unconsciousness. The second tier of houses was in a better state. If the dead had gold on them, chances were high there was more in the empty houses. The closest was a well-preserved three story house with a flat roof. 

[I lived there], a sad voice suddenly commented.

Shocked, Tarmion whirled around.

"Who's there?" he demanded, taking a defensive stance, his voice echoing through dead streets and open houses. Nobody stepped out of the shadows.

[Father had gone to fight against the Shadow, but I stayed back at home and helped mother in the bakery]. It was the voice of a child, a boy. It seemed familiar. [I miss them both], the voice continued, and Tarmion realized it was the voice of the boy who had brought him here – Sero. [Light, I can't remember what she looked like!] Sero cried out in agony, his voice fading back into the void.

He definitely was going mad. Goosebumps covered Tarmion's skin as he slowly took a step inside.

_The price for plain flour had quadrupled since Kemali had fallen to the advance of the shadow. The people were willing to pay the rising prices, after all they needed something to eat, but Karine longed for the times it had not been plain bread she had been baking but fruitcakes and cream pies. Now even the flour for bread came in only sporadically as shadow spawn made travelling the roads outside the larger cities a dangerous affair. She prayed to the Creator that the war would end soon, one way or the other. People were still safe here, and many had fled to the shining white houses of Avronfaracaldrelle, but this was no life: every day in fear, every new dawn bringing with it the very real possibility of one of the Forsaken placing his eyes on the still peaceful place. She tried not to show her sorrows to her son. It was hard enough for the boy to grow up without a father…_

_Sudden tremors threw her off balance, and a wave of heat crushed through the open doors of the bakery. She tried to get up again, but the earthquakes only grew in intensity, and as Karien crawled towards the door of her workshop, thunderous rumble outside turned into an encompassing roar. Flames and darkness swept the sunny sky away as she looked outside. The horizon was aflame, and mountains spitting fire were growing with immense speed from the eastern hills. Some houses were collapsing. Karine reached the door frame and looked outside, shouting the name of her son, Sero. The last thing she saw was Caran Tureed. She hadn't seen him since the day he had gone to fight by Lews Therin Telamon's side. The Aes Sedai was blazing with light coming from within him, and his maniacal laughter even cut through the apocalyptic noise. Karine wanted to scream as a shock wave of energy erupted from the town's square. _

Tarmion looked down at the outstretched skeleton besides his feet that once had been a loving mother. Suddenly he felt very dirty for disturbing the deads' rest. He gave the sombre place a last look and walked back outside. It was time to go. Sticking to the remains in the open would be sufficient one way or the other. One last time he went back to the former town square. Between all the dust and debris a half-buried skeleton stuck out, its bones blackened, glued together by an immense heat. Around its neck still hung a seemingly untouched collar made from small silver chains. He bowed down to grab it and shuddered. Caran Tureed. Even in death the mad channeller still instilled fear in him even though he only knew him from what the orb had shown him. The man had broken the world.

"Caran Tureed," he said aloud as if to assure himself that the man was dead.

The name left a bad taste in his mouth, and Tarmion decided that now _really_ was the time to leave. Taking what gold and silver he could find in the open on his way back to the rift he hoped he still remembered correctly, he stumbled up the slope, the ceiling of the cave getting lower and lower. He took a last look at the silent necropolis of Avronfaracaldrelle and entered the tunnels that had lead him here.

It was much darker in there. He kept his head down and slowly put on foot before another, carefully groping his way forward. It was a painstaking process, even more so as he could not actually see whether he made any progress or not. In the darkness, you lost all feeling for time. He could have been wandering through the dark for mere minutes or whole hours when his hands no longer touched rock in front of them. He had reached a bifurcation. He groaned and cursed the Creator for throwing yet another boulder into his already stony path. Finding the way out now even more had become a game of pure chance.

Tarmion slowly staggered into the right tunnel when a displeased male voice stated: [Take the left path. I saw you coming from there.]

He closed his eyes, silently counted till three, then slowly turned around again, opening his eyes. Nobody was there.

"For fuck's sake, show yourself! Stop playing those mind games, okay?" he yelled. "Who are you?" And then it dawned on him, and with an agonized moan he threw his hands up. The tunnels gave his voice an echo. The other voice had none. It was in his head.

[Who are you?] it echoed his own question with a tone somewhere between incomprehension and huffiness. [What are you doing in my mind? Answer me!]

It was a pleasant baritone that boomed of authority and knowledge.

"Your mind?" Tarmion griped with acid in his voice. "I wake up with no memory in a dead city, have flashbacks of a past that is not mine and I am hearing voices that aren't there, but I am in _your_ mind? Leave me alone!" he spat out.

[Light! This is just another trick by the Dark One. He's been trying to break our resolve with all his power lately, but the Hundred won't fall to him that easily, ha! 'Caran', Lews Therin said, 'we will see the end of this.']

"He got you a long time ago," he snarled under his breath. "Why couldn't you just die at Shayol Gul?"

[Darkfriend!]

_You broke the world! Get. Out. Of. My. Head_! Tarmion shot back in his thoughts.

[I sat in the Hall of Servants besides The Dragon], the other voice stated in confusion, trailing of to a murmur before erupting in a mad rambling. [Cowards! They left us to go there alone], he moaned.

_Shut up_.

[They betrayed us, sold us out!] he whispered, [oh, I will make flutes from their bones and play songs sitting on a tower made out of their skulls]. Caran Tureed started to giggle maniacally.

_Shut up_!

The tittering in his head grew into a cackling laughter, grew louder still, until it became like a howling wind filling his brain, feeling as if it threatened to burst his skull.

"SHUT UP!"

Caran Tureed's voice was gone. The only thing Tarmion heard was his heavy breath and the frantic beating of his heart. He took the left path.

When the distinct reflection of sunlight finally caught his eyes, it seemed to him as if he had spent days in the tunnels. Caran Tureed, or the voice in his head, or his own madness – whatever one might have called it, it had been right. The tunnels widened up to a twenty feet high rift that looked as if the mountainside had been hit by the strike of a giant axe. Not far from the rift in the mountainside was a small, dark lake. Tarmion sunk to his knees and drunk eagerly. The water was cool and clear and fresh, and to him it tasted like the sweetest honey. It was as if there was a lake inside of him that needed filling. When he felt his stomach swelling and his throat finally softening again, he sat down besides the water. Finally breathing fresh air and feeling the light of the sun on his skin again, he felt as if he had been reborn.

His gaze fell on his reflection in the water, and startled he rubbed his eyes. The features in the face were as he remembered them, but the rest… . He never had been dramatically overweight, and ten pounds less certainly would have been nice, but the reflection looking back at him from the dark lake was gaunt, with high cheekbones and brown-green eyes resting in deep eye sockets. Filthy, matted shoulder-length hair covered his head, and the short goatee had been replaced by a greasy, long full beard. His hair had not been longer than an inch for the past four years! He still looked like the man he remembered, but he seemed thinner, older, more wary.

But how? Nothing was right, nothing made any sense to him. Sighing gravely, he took a wide look around. On the mountains' foot there was a large forest of maple and beech trees interspersed by tall, majestic oaks. Far in the distance he could see the landscape changing into hills and open plains. The mountains in his back reached skywards for thousands of feet, leaving all vegetation behind, ending in bare, snow covered peaks. Snow.

_It had been a long day of gaming, but it had been great fun. He was incredibly glad that Anna had agreed to fetch him from Peter's place that late in the evening. He looked at the car's digital watch. It was already past midnight, and he was tired, his eyelids getting heavier with every minute. The weather was pretty bad outside. Snow was falling. It seemed winter had decided to come a little bit earlier than usual this year. Anna wasn't talking much as she concentrated on the white road before her, but he could see that she was in a bad mood. They had been together for four years, and she never had shown much acceptance for his "Realms of Arcania" role playing habits with his pals. He knew he would have to make up for it for the better part of the remaining weekend. He closed his eyes and had almost dozed off when he felt the car moving, sliding to its side. Anna screamed with fear, but all he did was holding his breath with anticipation as the old car hit the concrete pillar of a highway bridge at 100 kph._

He felt tears in his eyes when the memories ended rushing through his mind. So that was it. The truth behind it all. Whether he had really died or not, he did not know, but his instincts had been right from the start. He did not belong here. This was not his world. Aes Sedai. The Breaking of the World. Lews Therin Telamon. The Dark One. _The Wheel of Time_.

More naïve souls would have claimed that a dream had come true, but at twenty-seven he had long left behind that youthful ignorance. It was a savage, somewhat early-Renaissance styled world with a dozen nations in various states of disarray, unleashed religious fanatics, self-absorbed nobles, insidious and two-faced Aes Sedai, and, not to forget that, the possibility of a very real Armageddon looming on the horizon.

Looking down on himself, he clenched his fists, fuming. The choice between resignation and determination was an easy one. Having been brought here against his will, he would do what seemed right and necessary to him. Changes were needed, and he now had the knowledge, the determination and the money to bring them about. His true name would not come back to him, but that was one thing he did not care about. Tarmion Genda was more than good enough. Tarmion Genda would be his name to the world.

He was not bound by their rules of conduct. And he was no young boy like the main protagonists of the books had been. He remembered the movie "The Mummy", and its famous catchphrase of "Death is just the Beginning". Maybe he had _not_ died, but this was a beginning nonetheless.

Not his world. A thin, cold smile appeared on his greasy face as he started his long descent. Not his world. Not his rules.


	3. First Steps Into A New World

**Chapter 3**

**First Steps Into A New World**

The first day had still been rather easy. Starting around noon, Tarmion had climbed down the steep hillside towards a forest untouched by any sign of civilization. The trees did not grow closely to each other and the underbrush was light, and if there were wild beasts, they had decided not to bother him. Making good progress on his way north he guessed he had crossed maybe ten miles in rough terrain when the sun started vanishing behind the tree tops and sunk below the horizon. Nightfall brought the cold with it, and the hunger.

A rough estimate of Tarmion regarding the time of the year had been late spring or early summer, and the nights in the shadows of the tall maples and oaks where chilly. His green coat was robust and made of thick cloth, but he only wore an armless shirt beneath it, and the ground he rested on was damp and cold. The hunger was equally bad. He was neither hunter nor gatherer and had little to no experience as to how to survive alone in the wilderness. More so, his gaunt form obviously had little reserves of body fat to fall back to. Freezing, hungry and exhausted he huddled up beneath the meagre cover of a the roots of a fallen tree and dozed off into a restless sleep.

The next day was harder. He woke up about an hour before sunrise, his limbs stiff, his body aching. Pumping warm blood through his veins seemed to take his body ages, but the tension eased a bit after he had walked a bit. Trees were becoming less frequent, with wide spaces of a dozen or more metres between them. Low brushwork full of thorns and high ferns now made him take frequent detours on his path. Twice he saw deer and their fawns in the distance, but they vanished quickly when they caught his scent. His breakfast consisted of filling his stomach with the clear water of a narrow stream that crossed his path, and he used the short rest to cut himself a walking stick with a stainless steel jackknife he had found in a pocket in his coat. His clothes were in a worse shape than he had thought. The cloth of his shirt felt brittle, the blue trousers had wide cuts on both legs, and the black leather boots were strained and crisp.

After walking for the better part of the morning forest changed into a downs covered in knee-high green and yellow grass and scattered gnarled trees. A mild western breeze blew across the land, and the sky was blue with only a few cloudy patches in between. Arriving on the top of one of the steeper hills he detected a small column of smoke in the distance. On a hill with soft slopes a longhouse, half-sunken into the ground and covered with a thatched roof, surrounded by shacks, ploughed fields and fences came into his sight. A scrawny older man with suntanned skin and grey and black fringe of hair was working in a small garden on the eastern slope. When Tarmion came up the hill, he stopped and waited with reserved curiosity.

"Ho there, good man!" Tarmion called out, hoping that the farmer would understand him.

"Greetings, stranger. Don't usually get much company out 'ere." The peasant had a raspy voice, but seemed friendly enough.

"It's a longer story," Tarmion barked a laughter, relieved that there at least would be no language barriers. "Genda's the name. Tarmion Genda."

"I'm Harod Jogir, and that's my land. What brings you to my farm?"

"I seem to be lost, and to be honest with you, I feel like I'm starving. If you'd be so kind to offer me a place at your table tonight and a place to sleep, I'd be deeply grateful to you." He sighed, feeling the pain his twisting stomach made at the mentioning of food. "I have silver to reimburse you, and I'll be on my way again as soon as the sun rises tomorrow." One of the silver coins appeared in his hand, and he held it up for the peasant to see.

Harod Jogir looked at him indecisively, then shrugged and spat out.

"Well, the light blind me! You are one strange fellow, but I'll be damned if someone claims that Jogir's farm is devoid of all hospitality. Very well, come on up."

Harod lead him into the farmhouse. The interior consisted of a single, large room built around a central fireplace. The ceiling was low and the beams were dusty and covered with dried herbs in bundles, smoke-dried meat and stored farming tools. The floor was covered by wooden planks, and what little furniture existed was crude, yet pragmatic. His view fell on a sheathed sword that hung on the wall.

"Your's?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"My son's," he answered, shaking his head. "He's driven our horse cart to the village to sell the spring harvest. The blade, that's a family heirloom. I got it from my father, he got it from my grandfather, and so on. It's old, but I keep it sharp and oiled," he shrugged. "If you own something, you take care of it. Do you know how to handle a blade?"

"Not that I know of it. But then, I _do_ have some slight problems with my memory," Tarmion grinned wryly. "Do you know how to use it?"

"Me? Blood and ashes," he grunted. "Can't hack firewood with it, can't plough with it, and for hunting or keeping the wild beasts away from the meadows a good spear and bow are way better tools. Trouble with your memory?"

"Can't remember much of who I am or where I come from. Woke up yesterday with a banging head and no idea where I was and what was going on." He looked back at the sword. "Then why don't you sell it? Seems like a fine blade to me. You could certainly get some coin for it."

"Thought about that myself sometimes, stranger, but I can't get myself to give it away. It just belongs with the family."

Tarmion nodded understandingly.

"When will your son be back?" he inquired.

"I s'ppose sometime during the coming day. It's about six hours with a cart to Grevesbridge. That's where you should head to, if I may say so. Closest village to my farm," he explained.

They did not talk much during the remaining day. Harod was a kind enough man to let him sleep by the fireplace, but a farm kept a man busy all day long. Tarmion helped him with the firewood, and found out _en passant_ that Harod's farm was in the easternmost corner of the Almoth Plain, some fifty leagues south of a city called Katar. The Jorgirs had been living on that farm for some generations, but it had always been hard work, especially with the randomness the rain showed in falling during the past years.

Dinner was simple: fresh milk, bread and a soup made of carrots, onions and garlic. It was not much, but Tarmion was deeply grateful for it. There was little he could ask the man about the world – even though he found out what year it was, 993 NE – and Harod himself was exhausted from a long day's work and in no mood for long talks. When the man finally went to bed and put out the oil lamps, Tarmion curled up besides the fireplace on a piece of sheep fur and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

They rose at sunrise. Harod prepared a breakfast of cold milk, bread and hard cheese, and when they were done, Tarmion gave him the promised silver and bid him farewell.

"There is an inn at Grevesbridge," the peasant told him before he left. "My cousin is it's owner. Tell him I sent you. He'll give you a chamber and a hot meal then despite your ragged looks, stranger."

On his way towards the village Tarmion was deeply sunken in thoughts. For one, he made a list of things he would need. On the other hand, he drew up a plan for his background story. Harod Jogir's estimate had been off by about an hour. He had kept a good pace, most certainly faster than a fully laden oxen cart, still it took him more than seven hours to the village of Grevesbridge. About sixty houses made of bricks and wood, the most of them with flat-angled roofs, surrounded by fields and meadows and brushwork and with a small stream running through the middle of it, that was Grevesbridge. Most people were out on the fields as he approached the village, but still he drew a lot of curious and sceptical looks from the village folk as he walked towards the widely visible inn, a two-storied building with a thatched roof and a bright red sign showing – of all the things he had imagined – a prancing pony.

The gods of fate seemed to have a talent for mockery.

The taproom was empty except for Tarmion and a young wench who shrieked and dropped the pot she had been carrying the moment he entered, making it vividly plain to him that he really must be looking like something between a beggar and a Trolloc to the unsuspecting woman.

The innkeeper came bursting into the room with an angry word for the wench on his lips, stopped in his track and measured him with a dismissive frown.

"I don't serve beggars in my inn. If ye be looking for alms, good bugger the farmers," he grunted. He was a burly man with bushy, brown hair and grey wisps, probably in his late forties.

"Then it's good that I am no beggar, I suppose," Tarmion exclaimed confidently, closing the door behind him while the wench was cleaning the splinters and parts of the broken pot while she watched him with a wary eye. He fiddled in his pockets and draw a silver coin, showing it to the innkeeper. "Your cousin sends me, Master...?"

"Rodam," he answered gruffly, noticing the coin, "Alsam Rodam. So that old crow sent you?"

"I stayed a night at Harod's farm, Master Rodam. He told me the way to your fine inn, and there I was thinking I could have use for a hot meal or two." He sighed, and only part of it was played for the man. He really _was_ hungry.

"Well, I've got some stew brewing on the fire, and I'll bring you some hard cheese, sausages and bread, and a jar of the local brew," the innkeeper replied with a smile, suddenly remembering that he, in fact, _was_ running an inn and that Tarmion _was_ a paying customer.

"Anything else I can do for you, Master...?"

"Tarmion Genda," he replied while taking a closer look at the inn.

"Genda," the burly innkeeper mused. "That not a name from around 'ere, isn't it?" he asked, then blushed. "Begging your pardon, I'm just too curious, where is my mind. Lyara, see to it that Master Genda's wishes are fulfilled," he turned to the young wench.

Tarmion smiled, shaking his head.

"No need for apologies, I get that often. My father was from Cairhien." The lie seemed so natural Rodam never even blinked. "But yes, I need to utilize some more of your good house's services. I need a hot bath to scrub off all that dirt, and someone with nimble hands to cut that hair of mine. I must look as if some birds where nesting on my head. That, and a room for the night," he added, drawing another coin from his pockets.

"Of course, Master Genda. Lyara will see to it. Take a seat, there comes your lunch..."

Had Harod Jogir's food been delicious then this was a feast. The stew was excellent and spicy, and the beer had that full-flavoured if slightly bitter taste he so loved. Once he was finally finished he felt round and full as a ball. Rising up, he noticed the girl waiting for him in the door. The young woman had used the time to make a bath for him, and she shyly lead him into the adjoining room where a steaming tub was waiting for him.

The water was scolding hot, but once he had sunken down into it he felt his whole body almost instantly relaxing. With a content sigh he started to make full use of the soap while the wench was waiting patiently with great, curious eyes. Tarmion had had no idea how dirty a body could get as he scrubbed off layer after layer of grease and dust, but it was a good feeling. He almost felt clean _inside _when he finally put the soap aside.

"You know," he said to the wench, shaking his head, "I don't bite. Your name is Lyara, isn't it?"

"Yes, m'lord." She looked down and blushed, realizing she had watched him the whole time.

"Well, Lyara, that is a beautiful name. A pleasure to make your acquaintance," Tarmion replied softly with a charming smile.

She blushed a little bit more.

"Th-thank you, Master Genda, you are very kind."

He chuckled and shook his head once more.

"Oh, quite the contrary. I come here, dirty and looking like I jumped here directly from the Blight, and you cook stew for me and make me a hot bath. It is _you_ who are kind to _me_." He looked into her eyes. They were nervously trying to look away, but he still noticed their beautiful colour, a light hazel. "There seems to be something you want to ask me, Lyara. You look curious," he remarked and saw he bite her lip. "Why don't we talk a bit more while you cut my hair and shave my beard off?"

He leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes, listening to the clicking sounds of the scissors.

"Would you please tell me about Cairhien? Is it true that its towers scrape the clouds?" she pleaded with a hushed voice.

"Once they may have been, even though I doubt it," Tarmion told her with a sad smile, his eyes closed all the while. He had never seen them, but felt it easy to imagine them: tall and white and shining in the early morning sun above the ancient city. "I was too young to remember much of it as my family left the kingdom for the west, and then the Aiel came and burned down the city, and nothing ever was the same again."

He could feel her shudder subtly at his mentioning of the desert warriors. It was quite obvious that they had left an impression on the world when they crossed the Spine of the World, but he knew next t nothing about them but the name and the grander story they played a part in.

"Have you seen them?" she asked, both curious and frightened at the same time, and Tarmion had to chuckle.

"He-, light no, I doubt we'd be having this conversation if I had," he snorted, damning himself silently. Lying was rather easy, but talking outside his accustomed way of speaking was not. It took conscious efforts to avoid words like _hell_, _god_, _shit_ and other four letter words and employ the 'right' ones like _light_ or _blood and ashes_.

"But there are no Aiel on this side of the Spine of the World nowadays, Lyara, so there is no need to be afraid. They fought the whole West, but when King Laman of Cairhien was killed in the battle at the Dragonmount they just went back to their lands."

The names and dates and events just seemed to flow into his mind and out of his mouth as he went on and on, but never too much in detail. When they were done and she had lead him to his room, he watched himself in the small mirror the innkeeper had provided him. His features were still gaunt, but he looked far more like a human now. His hair had been cut short and washed, he had been shaved clean besides the chin, and both showed a reddish-brown colour, with the beard leaning stronger to the red part.

Remembering Rodam's greedy eyes he decided that from now on he would be less generous with his silver. People used coppers for everyday businesses. Silver coins were good money, and he was certain that the coins he had given the man were far more than he usually would have been charged for the services he had received. He would be more careful from now on.

After almost three weeks the village folk had pretty much gotten used to the presence of the slightly odd behaving, yet friendly and curious man. Two marriages were proposed and celebrated while he stayed. Tarmion tried his very best to be helpful, and where he could not be helpful, he tried to not to be in the way. Spending much time with the village folk, he also learned of their troubles, like the winter floods destroying the crops by the small river Greves. Why not make one day were the whole village works on a dam every ten day? he suggested, and got surprised stares as a response, but at the end of the second week the mayor and the council assembled and voted for it. And if that worked, why not dam up the river and use the water to irrigate the fields? the Old Hern of the northern farmstead suggested. They could even build a sawmill, the village's blacksmith added. The next day the humongous man took Tarmion by the side and showed him a spiked war hammer he had once made for a mercenary who never lived up to the deal and offered it to him at a discount. He could hardly say no to the deal as it was a simple yet beautifully crafted weapon, and blunt force was easier to master than the prowess one needed to master a sword.

Sleeping in a real bed, eating regular hot meals and shaving each day did wonders to his physique, and when he finally left the village after two ten days, the man who had looked like a vagrant owned a horse and ample supplies, a full set of durable clothes and a leather coat, a weapon and some basic tools and all the small things you needed as a traveller.

First he followed the road that lead north-east towards the city called Katar, but once the village had vanished from his field of view, he started going south again, towards the place he had originated from almost a month ago.

It was a two day cross-country journey, but he found his way back to the subterranean ruins of Avronfaracaldrelle without difficulty. He had memorized the path when he left for his first foray into this world's civilization, and he returned well-equipped and with a mount to carry his belongings. Though it was not homesickness or curiosity that drove him back to the old city from the Age of Legends – even though curiosity played a part in it – but calculated greed. For two days he camped at the foot of the steep hills into which the winding caverns towards Avronfaracaldrelle lead, and for two days he worked his way through the rubble with torches and shovel and pick, and yet, what he discovered was just a tiny fraction of what the ancient city once had been. Still, the gold and silver and gems was enough to make him doubt that his mount – an old and sweet-tempered mare by the name of Arra – could handle the weight.

As he sat by his camp fire the evening before the day he would continue his way into this new world, he thought that being on his own, ripped from his old life was not nearly as bad as he had thought. That he did not remember much of that old life certainly helped in that respect, he conceded, but his new freedom was … thrilling. He had no responsibilities here. Only opportunities.


	4. Unlikely Friends in Unlikely Places

**Chapter 4**

**Unlikely Friends in Unlikely Places, Part I**

****For the fifth day since he had left his comfortable shelter at Grevesbridge the sun rose as he continued his march towards the city of Katar on the Northern Road. That road was less a road and more of a path, partially overgrown with the fresh and bright green grass of spring. Only few trails of a peasant's cart here and there showed that the way was being used at all, but luckily enough it was still very much visible.

His legs ached, even though not as much any more as during the first two days. It was a slow progress, but his body was starting to getting used to move as much as it had to now that he was on his own. Setting up camp for the night and making fire still was tedious business, but he thought he was getting more experienced at that, too. But the hardships were not what caused him most of the problems. Discipling himself, structuring the day, following a strict routine, that was far more of a challenge. Making a fireplace, collecting firewood, building some shelter if necessary, practising with his war hammer, that all took time that he would have loved spending otherwise: asleep. The rational part of him knew that was the best course of action, of course. But that did not make him _like_ it any more. He doubted what he did made any actual sense in a fight but it helped him to get a feeling for the heavy weapon in his hands.

The high peaks of the _Mountains of Mist_ in the east were his constant companions, clouded even during the sunny days of the early spring. To his south and east the Dark Wood appeared and disappeared again from time to the, clinging to the slopes of the mountains. The lands here were still sparsely populated, yet not as sparsely as he had feared. Every hour or so the road passed by a lonely farmstead, and during the past day he had travelled through more villages than he had during the other days of his voyage combined. The towns were small, the villages were smaller, but there still were people. All in all, what he had seen of this new world was not nearly as empty as he had imagined it to be.

And travelling alone, in relative silence, sharpened his senses for the wild beauty of the lands around him. No exhaust fumes blurred the air, no machines dulled the sounds of nature, and instead of their noise the voices of a hundred different birds accompanied him and Arra. During the few days since he had bought her he had grown fond of the old horse. It was timid and still strong for its age, and it provided him with simple company that made travelling so much easier. And having a horse that was as easy to handle as good old Arra allowed for his thoughts to wander off while walking.

Still, he was curious for his first city. The pictures of Avronfaracaldrelle still lingered in his mind, but that was a city from the Age of Legends, a holiday resort. He doubted anything like this existed in this day and age. A good estimate at his current speed was two and a half days more on the road and he would reach the Katar, and that just in time for a nice hot meal for lunch. If he did not have to seek shelter from the weather more frequently, that was.

While the first days had greeted him with sunshine and light spring breezes, clouds had slowly started to overcast the sunny sky this morning, and the towering grey cloud formations gathering on the slopes of the Mountains of Mist to the north promised thick rain and a thunderstorm for later hours. If luck was on his side, he would reach an outlying farmstead or the next village before nightfall.

The prospect of weathering a thunderstorm out in the wilderness all alone with a probably frightened horse did not really fill him with anxiety. Tarmion started walking at a faster pace, pulling the mare behind him. The bumpy, winding road lead down a hillside and into a thick oaken wood. The tall and ancient trees' branches formed an arched tunnel above him, turning the day into a soft twilight. The air smelled of moss and damp wood, and the happy chants of the birds of the fields became replaced by the brooding calls of the birds of the woods. He did not know for how long he had been walking in the dim halflight of the forest when the silence of nature was suddenly and brutally torn by shouting voices ahead.

After the quiet of the forest road the noise seemed alien and twice as loud as it was to him. To add insult to injury, he could feel Caran Tureed stirring in the winding caverns of his mind again, howling like a rabid dog or some kind of foul wind. He chose to ignore him, which the tormented soul - swift to take offence as it was – commented on with cackling laughter that Tarmion shoved back into a reclusive corner of his mind. He bound Arra to a tree, patting her side to comfort the old horse, and followed the sounds through the underbrush, holding his walking spear in both hands. The trees stood close here. Branches and leaves got into his face, rubbing and scratching at his skin, and he had to cover his eyes with one hand, using his spearhand to grope his way through the undergrowth. Not long thereafter, it had become sticky with sap and fir needles.

As he crawled closer to the source of the commotion, the sounds turned into shouts and curses, and there was another sound there as well, the ugly wet thump of something hitting flesh and bone. When he thought he had come close enough, he peaked through the leafage.

Three men, peasants by their attire, were kicking and wielding clubs at a man laying on the ground who tried to shelter his head with his arms while they hurled insults at him and laughed at each other simultaneously. 'Thief' and 'darkfriend' were the insults uttered the most often, but Tarmion could not eliminate the thought that what was happening here was wrong. Whatever the man might have done, he certainly did not deserve to be beaten to death in the woods! He felt a strange surge flashing through his body, even though it was probably nothing but adrenalin.

Like with everything, his memories were spotty at best, but he did not think of him as much of a hero. Still, even as he was finishing the thought, he grabbed the spear with both hands and rushed towards the three assailants. Before they even noticed him, he hammered the pole of the weapon into the closest man's back with a loud crack so loud he feared he had broken both, the weapon and the man's back. Whirling around in the same motion, easier on his feet than he had ever imagined he could be, the wooden end of his spear slammed into the hollows of the next man's knees, sending him to the ground with an agonized scream. The third man, however, took a swipe at him with a crooked piece of hard wood, hitting him in the chest. The impact drove the air from his lungs and made him stumble backwards. He seemed as surprised as Tarmion at that before he screamed some wordless battle cry and charged over his fallen comrades and their victim, grabbing his club with both hands over his head. Suddenly afraid and off balance, the only thing Tarmion could do was thrusting his spear forward. There was a sudden crunch, and a resistance against his thrust. Silence settled into the woods for a long moment.

Then someone screamed, more in fear and surprise than in pain. Tarmion looked up, the air burning like fire in his lungs. The charging attacker, a scrawny, sweat and dirt covered man of maybe forty summers, had dropped his weapon and stood on both feet, shivering, frozen in the middle of a step. His gaze frantically switched between Tarmion and the tear shaped spearhead that had pierced his gut on the very left side. For all he knew, the wound did not seem to be very deep.

Tarmion staggered to his feet again, feeling the adrenalin rushing out of him, leaving only cold sweat and exhaustion. He pulled the spear back with both hands. His opponent yelped and stumbled back, but Tarmion lunged after him and knocked him to his feet besides his moaning comrades, putting the tip of his spear against the man's throat.

"Three men deep in the forest, beating to death someone who is not even defending himself," he looked at the figure who had huddled into a foetal position, not moving any more. His voice was hoarse as he continued, and breathing caused him pain. "I should kill you right here and rid the world of scum like you, but I am no cold-blooded murdering scum like you."

"He stole chickens from Ealfred's barn," the one he had hit in the back said with a moan, rolling himself around. "A girl saw him doing it."

Tarmion moved the spear to him, causing the man to lie still again.

"And instead of throwing him into a cell, putting him in the pillory or simply chasing him off, you dimwits decided it was a good thing to beat him to death – for stealing some chicken?" he looked down at him incredulously.

"But he is a darkfriend! He has the eyes of the Dark Lord!" the man on the ground insisted.

"So now he is a chicken-stealing darkfriend? Incredible! Then you maybe should have killed him and be done with it. But no, you had to chase him through field and forest!" Tarmion frowned. Maybe the man he just had saved really _was_ a darkfriend, but what those other three had tried to do was not justice but plain murder. Still, if he killed them now, he would be no better than them. He groaned loudly. "Even if he is one, you three took your time slowly killing him, torturing him. So what does that make you? No better than him, so much is certain. Stand up!" he spat out, pulling back the spear. "Stand up, all three of you!" He took two steps back. Once the three wounded men had struggled to their feet, he levelled the spear at them again while glancing at the trees above.

"You stabbed Mykal! Maybe you're a darkfriend yourself," the one he had struck down by hitting him in the hollows of his knees muttered angrily. Caraan's curses grew louder in his mind, like the tide rolling up the beach, then fainted again to a low background rumble.

"If I was a darkfriend," he responded angrily, "I would have skewered you from behind like pigs and not hit you with the butt of my spear. You three were in the process of murdering a helpless man!"

"Not a man, a darkfriend," the older one said, but it sounded weaker than before.

"So what? You three light-blinded dimwits hunted that man through field and forest, in plain sight of every rat and fat crow. Don't you know they serve the Dark One, too? That they are his eyes and ears when he needs them?" He gave them a mocking frown, but the words turned sour in his mouth. What if they were? As if he wanted to confirm his concerns, Caraan Tureed howled and giggled. Tarmion Genda, however, could see the sudden fear in the other three men's eyes.

"Go home," he demanded, suddenly feeling very tired as the last remnants of the adrenalin rush burnt off. "Go home, and see to your families. If that one really belongs to the Soulblinder he will not take what you did very kindly."

That was probably not even a lie.

The three looked at each other hesitatingly.

"What about him?"

"You've battered him pretty bad already. I doubt I'll have trouble with him. _If_ he is what you claim he is," Tarmion patted the shaft of his spear with a thin smile, "I will see to him." The smile vanished as fast as it had appeared. "Now leave. Go home!" he demanded. "Tell the others you have chased off your chickenstealer, or darkfriend, or whatever, and let them see to your wounds. They'll most likely make you look like heroes." He snorted. "Be gone. It's no longer your business."

It was the oldest one, Mykal, who was the first to turn away. Pressing a piece of cloth against the flesh wound in his belly, he carefully trod away from his unconscious victim, brushing branches and conifer twigs away. Hesitant, the younger man and the third guy, a pot-bellied man in his late twenties decided to follow him. Tarmion watched them limp away in silence, glad that they did not see his shivering knees.

When he was certain they were gone, he knelt down besides the huddled figure on the ground. It was a man with filthy black, shoulder-length hair. How old he was Tarmion could not tell, not with all that dirt and bruises and crusted blood. His clothes were torn and ragged and greasy. They must have been black once, but time and dirt had washed large parts of the dark colour from the fabric, and filth and mud had done their part to make the original form and looks of them indiscernible. Instead of shoes he had wrapped rags around his feet. He only feature that did not quite fit the picture of a battered vagrant were the two long daggers the man carried in silver-lined wooden scabbards on a broad leather belt. Tarmion leaned forward to take them.

He stopped an inch short of them. His fingers felt numb, and the feeling seemed to crawl upward from them, like cold tentacles reaching through his veins. More surprised than afraid he pulled his hand back, feeling how life and warmth flowed back into it. He knelt over the man to take a closer look at the weapons without touching them. His stench was breath-taking, as if he had just crawled out of a sink. The daggers were also breath-taking, even though in a different way. Cross guard and pommel were ornate with intricate silver markings mirroring those on the ebony scabbards. But where the bare steel was visible it had a strange light green taint to it, as if whoever forged it had poured venom into the steel itself. The blades were definitely alarming.

He heard the distant rumble of thunder. The wind had freshened, whirling treetops back and forth while pushing darkening clouds towards the _Mountains of Mist_. Whatever he wanted to do, he could not stay here. He looked at his spear and sighed.

Tarmion was stirring a small camp fire with a stick when the stranger finally woke up again. He had dragged the man and Arra through the woods, as far away from the place he had found the man as he could manage to. They had found shelter beneath a formation of grey, moss-covered rocks overgrown with bushes and small trees that had sunken their roots deep into the old stones. The wind outside had become stronger, but Tarmion hoped their camp site was somewhat safe beneath that roof of stone, twigs and leaves. The stick vanished into the fire. He took his spear square over his lap and started cleaning the steel blade with an oiled cloth, trying to look a lot more relaxed than he actually felt.

The man he had saved shocked him already by the first thing he had seen him do: opening his eyes. They were black. And not just his pupils, his whole eyes were black, like obsidian lenses. Tarmion avoided directly looking into them and grabbed his spear a little bit tighter. It brought back the same feeling as when he had tried to touch the daggers: cold and dangerous.

He could feel how the other one studied him.

"Do you want to kill me?" he asked with a hoarse voice that indicated it had not been used often to speak for a long time. He did not moan, even though his hands touched the bruises on his face, producing a frown.

"Probably." Tarmion put the oiled piece of cloth aside. "I'd say that depends on you. If killing you was my primary concern, I would have done so while you were unconscious, so you may consider the odds here."

"What's with the others?" he asked. "Those who chased me."

"I sent them away after I had surprised them. They were simple folk, easy to scare. And I did not want you to be murdered. But they called you a darkfriend."

"Then why haven't you killed me?" That sounded strangely neutral. Or tired. Exhausted as he felt himself it was hard to judge.

"Curiosity. Maybe my darkfriend lore is also a bit rusty, but last time I checked chickenstealing wasn't the primary concern of the Dark One," he said with forced ease, his gaze betraying him by wandering from the stranger to his daggers and back again.

"Maybe this far south of the blight us darkfriends have lower priorities," the other explained groaning in a tone that even in his tensed state was easily recognizable as sarcasm.

Tarmion kept his calm, if just barely.

"What are you?"

"I am Zath Talaka," the black-eyed stranger announced defiantly, the 'a's in his last name barely audible besides the last one.

"That was not my question," Tarmion frowned.

The other one, Zath, smiled weakly.

"What I am and who I am cannot be separated of each other. Will you hear me out?"

The story he was told over the next two hours was the story of Zath Talaka's life, and it was full of wonders – and horrors. It was a tale of capture, of slavery, hardships, of flight and despair. Rain was falling on their thick roof of leaves and branches in a soft, drumming staccato, and the sun began to set in the west. And all the while Caraan Tureed raged and screamed.

"So you are telling me your father was a Myrddraal?"

Tarmion had put his weapon aside and rubbed his temples with both hands.

Zath scowled visibly at that notion.

"I use that notion very loosely," he said coldly. "If you mean that _a_ myrddraal raped my mother and forced her and what few others survived into captivity where I was born, yes, you could call him my father."

"The thought that fades would rape never crossed my mind," Tarmion conceded, realizing how foolish such a belief had been. Rape and pillage were part of every war, and there was no reason why it should be any different in war like the one the borderlands had been fighting on and off for the past several millennia! But his caution was slowly being replaced by new curiosity, and he searched his mind for what facts might be buried in it. "And I didn't know they could have children with normal humans."

"They usually don't. And in the few cases where it works, the children are horrible abominations, even by their warped standards, and so deformed they cannot live."

He rested his head on the stone behind him and closed his eyes.

Tarmion could see where the dirt had been scrubbed away that his skin was so pale it was almost grey. The ever more stranger man remained silent for a moment, long enough that Tarmion feared that he had fallen asleep, but he started talking again with closed eyes.

"They say only one in a thousand women get pregnant, and of those babes only one in thousand is able to live. That made me a prized trophy. Enough human in me to blend in with some effort, enough myrddraal in me to be of use," he snorted disdainfully. "I guess they treated me well enough. Took me out of the slave pits, schooled me, fed me, trained me. When I was sixteen they gave me these," he unsheathed both daggers, their more than a foot long blades softly gleaming in the light of the camp fire," and I used them, oh I used them," he whispered.

"You didn't use them today," Tarmion pointed out wearily. "You could have killed them, couldn't you?"

It was as if those deep black eyes looked right through him. After a few moments, he turned his head away and looked down.

"Any given moment," the half-blood commented flatly. "But that just would have made me into what they already saw in me: the cold-blooded murderer and darkfriend. And then their friends would've come after me, and the cycle would continue. I do not want so much innocent blood on my hands, never wanted it. I did not choose to be born as what I am," he continued, anger swelling in his dark voice, anger at himself, anger against the world.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Why not?" he laughed. "Spare me your pity. I am wounded, weak and tired. You saved my life, and yet may still take it, and I don't see any other pressing concerns right now, so you have the honour to be the first person to hear the truth about my sorry life," he sneered.

"They say I am more than three-quarters human. They were," he struggled to find a fitting word, "_pleased_ by that. Eyes, a sense of humour, a 'full range of feelings' they called it. And I found out I can travel with the shadows, if even only smaller distances. They liked that even better." He shrugged. "Made me a better infiltrator and assassin. And I was good at that," he barked a short, bleak laughter that made Tarmion shudder.

"Enough human to blend in, enough myrddraal to be of use," he repeated.

"Yes," Zath said wearily. "I'd appear as a traveller at border posts or villages, and during the nights I would open the gates or kill the officers or what guards there were, and each success brought me praise, and later even luxuries and slave women. Oh, I enjoyed it."

"The spoils of war," Tarmion said neutrally, even though the thoughts were revolting.

"The spoils of war," Zath nodded. "But some time later, that changed. I learned a lesson only few that fall under the shadow ever do: everything has a price." He sheathed his daggers, his hands resting on their pommels. "Myrddraal blades receive one very special ingredient," he smiled weakly.

"Light!" Tarmion muttered in disgust, anticipating what would come now.

"The Trollocs of my fist told me that in my blades' case, it happened to be my mother's soul," Zath said, half sobbing, half laughing.

"Then you fled," Tarmion concluded solemnly.

"No. Nobody flees through hundreds of leagues of the Blight. Nobody _can_. I did as I was told. Grudgingly, but I did. It was the only thing I could do, I never learned anything else," he said, half in defence, half in resignation. "About a year later I was infiltrating a walled village in the north of Saldea. I had already killed the three guards in the guardhouse, and then... there she was. A woman, younger than me. She held a babe in her arm as she stepped into the room. The look on her face..." he closed his eyes once more and emptied the last drops of water from the skin. "I thought of my mother, and how she must have held me, and something long restrained in me broke loose. So, instead of killing her and opening the village to pillage and destruction, I stepped back into the shadows and started riding south. I never looked back."

He paused, throwing a stick into the crackling fire. Red and yellow snakes licked at it and swallowed it like a real snake would swallow a mouse. After a moment of silence where the only sounds were those of fire and water, Tarmion spoke out.

"I find it hard to believe your tale," and Caraan Tureed howled approvingly. "After all, you are part myrddraal."

That sounded more certain than Tarmion, in fact, felt. Knowing what he knew, he was the last person to call anybody else's story unbelievable. And this was a world were magic, evil and fate were very real things.

"Sometimes it takes conscious effort to brush that part of me aside. The malevolent streak is in my blood, even though that far away from the Blight it hardly ever tries to surface."

"I can feel it," Tarmion commented. "Even if your eyes weren't abnormal, it would keep me uneased around you."

"It's far weaker in me than in a true fade," Zath shrugged. "Now you know who I am. What I am. Do as you like. If this is how it is supposed to end, let's get it done. I am tired of running."

And _I_ am a man with half a dozen souls in my head, a man without memories, and most likely not from this world, he thought wryly. I should be the last person to call somebody else's story 'strange', Tarmion thought wryly.

[He's a darkfriend!] Caraan Tureed howled once again through the caverns of his – _their_? - mind. [I will burn him to ashes!]

And he came to understand that the ease he had felt since he had left the caves in the Mountains of Mist had perished. You are no murderer, he realized, and this is no game, not any more. He had to make a decision. Now.

"Do you want cheese or sausage with your bread?"

[I like chicken better], a young boy's voice commented.

[Beef!] Caraan Tureed concluded the discussion with the tone of royal superiority.

Despite his best efforts to not fall asleep in the presence of his strange companion, the night's soft fingers must have drawn him into a dreamless rest at some point, for when he opened his eyes again, daylight was shining through the openings in the canopy of leaves above him. And he was still alive.

"Take that, Caraan Tureed," he muttered triumphant and still half asleep. The camp fire had burned down to embers, and the morning was damp and cold. And he was alone again. The place were the half-blood, Zath, had rested, was empty. Well, alone and live still was better than alone and dead, Tarmion assumed wryly. The other one could have slit his throat at any point when he was asleep.

"But then that would have been futile as well," he frowned. Why kill him and not kill the three peasants. Still, evil could not be predicted. He yawned freely and stretched himself. A sting of pain made him stop. The place where he had been hit the day before was blue and swollen and aching like hell. No bones seemed to be broken, but they also were not far away from it from the way it felt.

Rustling leaves and twigs made him look up. Zath Talaka stood in their shelter's entrance, bare-chested and dripping with water. He was gaunt, hard muscled, and the skin really had a tint of grey. His body was covered in bruises but he still moved with the sly agility of a snake, and he had made his black hair into a ponytail.

"There is a stream not far away from here. I fetched fresh water and cleaned myself," he stated with something that could have been a friendly smile as he threw Tarmion the full wineskin. The daggers were still in their sheaths on the belt he wore. "I've also brought fresh firewood," he continued, sitting down again.

"Thank you," Tarmion answered, dumbfounded.

"No, thank _you_," Zath shook his head solemnly. "Thank you for saving my life. For sparing my life. I thought my last hour had come yesterday, that I fate finally had made my pay for all my sins."

"Maybe if people did not so easily accept notions about fate and destiny and tried to manage their own lives, the world would be a better place," he muttered more to himself than to Zath. "Hell, I didn't even know I had it in me." He laughed. It sounded uncertain and weak in his own ears, as if he was the one who was the most surprised about how things had played out. "No fate, Zath Talaka of Saldea. You made your choice. You could have stayed there. Accepted your fate, become what you hated, transformed into a mindless killing machine in service of the Dark One. But you didn't. Took abuse, even risked dying because you want people to judge you by your acts and not by your appearance. That's not fate, that's the free human will," he smiled reassuringly.

Zath looked at him with his unmoving dark eyes for a long time, his face sunken in thoughts.

"Fate cannot be completely dismissed, Tarmion Genda. I vowed to no longer kill for the Dark Lord or for myself. But you saved my life, the life of a stranger. People's fates are bent around you, Tarmion. You make a difference." Slowly, tentatively he reached out his pale hand. "I only served the shadow in my life, and then I ran away. But you, you saved me, spared my life, and shared your food and fire with me, knowing what I was. That is a debt I can never really repay. But I will try, Tarmion Genda. I pledge my service to you; my mind and my blades."

Tarmion was speechless, and deeply moved. He grabbed the grey-skinned man's hand and shook it.

"It will be an honour for me to have you riding by my side."

Zath just shook his head, his black eyes looking at him like deep winter lakes.

"No, Tarmion. It's an honour for _me_. Where do we go now?" Zath asked, smiling.

Tarmion looked northwards.

"Katar."

_**Author's Notes:**_

Wheel of Time_ lore has it that all Myrddraal are male. They are not sterile but they cannot reproduce with either humans or Trollocs. The above chapter took some creative freedom with that fact while still keeping the rule more or less intact. One in a million, especially in a medieval/early renaissance setting like the _Wheel of Time_ is statistically insignificant enough to not really count. I __also took some freedom with the issue of slavery and slaves at Shayol Ghul as I was not sure whether it was mentioned in the books or not, having not read them for some time now. However, assuming large slave populations makes sense for me, given how lazy Trollocs are and how imprecise their workmanship must be._


	5. Katar

**Chapter 5**

**Katar**

Katar.

Besides the name he knew nothing about it, even though the village folk had been quite talkative during his time with them. But then, the march alone once again recalled the differences between whatever place had spawned him and this world to his mind. It was quite natural for the good people at Grevesbridge to not know anything about Katar. Katar was more than ten leagues away from the village. 'Nobody has family so far away,' the mayor had stated, and for a peasant with a farmstead to manage or a craftsman running his business, how likely was it to be able to simply take the week or longer off to travel to the city?

Katar.

They say the first impression often persists the longest in one's memory. In the case of Katar it was not the dirty cobblestone roads, the narrow thatched-roof houses or the bleached red town wall that surrounded the city in an elongated ellipse and from whose cracks ivy and broad-leafed grass grew. It was the stench. Travelling across the country on foot and making camp under the open sky, one sweats, one gets smoked, one starts to smell a bit like the ground one sleeps on and the materials one works with. And when you walk, the wind washes out some of it again. Having a bickering child, a raving mad channeller and the remnants of a thousand moaning souls in one's head and a half-myrddraal walking besides one helped a lot in not noticing that, simply put, after some weeks on the road one stank. At first, that is unpleasant for the unaccustomed nose, but if one grew up in rural area, the gap to bridge is not too great. But in Katar's case, the stench preceded the city, with a sewage drain leading away from the city walls, down the slopes of the flat hill the settlement sat on and into the slow flowing river that circled the fortifications. The water was a foul mix of brown and green and rotting plants and decomposing waste, and it was a taste of what was yet to come.

After spending the past weeks on the road and in the wilderness Katar seemed far too crowded and cramped to him. Ox carts and merchants with mules or hand-drawn carts or peasants carrying bags in and out of the city and ordinary people coming for the goods offered on the market filled the street that lead through a forty feet high square door house. Guards in studded leather vests and colours that meant nothing to him watched the slow flood of people pour through the gates with little interest, leaning on spears and halberds. They passed them without being noticed, Tarmion leading his horse while Zath walked besides him, leaning on a wooden staff they had carved for him after deciding to disguise him as a blind man. He wore a piece of cloth wrapped around his head to hide his eyes, but Tarmion swore the half-myrddraal saw like any normal man would be able to see with his eyes unimpeded, so safely did he stride through the crowded streets, never even touching other people. Katar was built in the pattern of the board for a game of stones, just that the city wall had cut of the edges and only left the order of north-south streets crossing with strict east-west ones intact. Drifting with the flood flowing into the city on the central northwards road towards the city centre, they passed by streets labelled with big colourful signs on the house corners: loaves of bread for the bakers' street, a bone of ham for the butchers' one, a wide one labelled with a newly painted sign showing shovels, picks and swords for everything that needed an experienced hand with steel and iron, and half a dozen others.

The smell also changed. It was no longer quite as foul as the one near the sewage drain, but between the high brick and frame-work houses the air was sticky and hot, and the stench of sweat and garbage mixed with a thousand other smells: honey cakes, boiling pots of stew, burning wood, old washing water, roasting meat and sweet flowery perfumes. In it's own way that strange mixture was no less pleasant than the sewage drain.

Two junctions before they would have arrived on the marketplace Zath spotted the inviting front of an inn, and with smiles and copper coins Tarmion secured a room with two beds and a place for their horse in the inn's stable. The stew they were served for lunch was insipid, but after some days on the road something hot to eat was a nice change, and they bolted it all down with fresh bread and slices of hard cheese. Considering that they were both strangers to this part of the world, there was a lot the two men could talk about once they returned into the bustling streets. Away from the hard labour in the countryside they here also saw what Arad Doman really was famous for: its women. Even the common folk here aspired to achieve a degree of grace and seductive elegance that for anybody only familiar with the closed-up clothing style apparent in most other countries would come as quite a shock.

To Tarmion and Zath seeing the Domani women in their form-fitting garments, their almond-shaped eyes and their flowing black and brown hair were treats to their eyes that did not leave their loins unaffected. More than once the two just leaned against a wall and just watched the people march by.

"The things female beauty can do to the male mind," Zath chuckled, causing Tarmion to redden slightly before he also cracked a smile.

"Let's get to a barber," he mused. "No woman, Domani or not, would talk to us they way we look right now, and there's business to be done. If we want good prices we should rather look respectable."

"A haircut is the least of my problems," Zath commented, looking down on himself, his robes and garments a field of grimy patchwork and torn cloths.

Unlike most other kinds of crafts, barbershops could be found in almost every street of Katar. The one they chose was run by a weathered, hairless old Domani with wooden teeth and swift fingers. Rubbing his scratching beard, Tarmion also decided the have a shave after his new friend had had his hair washed and cut and his face shaved. Cleaned, the half-myrddraal seemed to be even paler, almost greyish, than beneath the dust and dirt that had covered him before. Tarmion did not have to tell him to keep his eyes shut. Truth be told, the man was a professional infiltrator and most likely knew tons more about this world than Tarmion could ever hope to grasp in the coming weeks. If anything, _he himself_ was the one that needed guidance.

Nonetheless, that shopkeepers were chatty natures seemed to be a universal constant, and for once the tall, auburn-haired man was glad of that. Without even asking, news and gossip and rumours poured out of the barber at an astonishing rate.

A month or so ago there had been clashes on the Almoth Plain, but the battles had been indecisive and Arad Doman and Tarabon had been left to licking their wounds. Why anybody would fight over an empty plain was beyond him, the barber stated with a scowl, but that was the way it was and had always been between the two nations. The Archons of Katar usually did stay out of these follies, but this time they had been forced to send some token commitment, a force of skirmishers on horseback. That had created considerable talk, with the men still not having returned to the day. The Archons did not like to be commanded by the King, he emphasized, and there was talk of secession once again, but the guilds and the miners were against it, and the Archons were divided on the issue, as they were on most issues. Yes, the Archons were a scheming lot, intriguing as much against the King as they did intrigue among themselves, with the guilds playing all against each other. The light was merciful that he was free of any guild business, otherwise he could not make a decent living with a clean conscience. All that bickering and fighting for who-could-say-what was good for nothing, as far as he was concerned. Everybody would disagree, and in the end the smelters and blacksmiths would decide what to do anyway, as they always did.

"And as if that was not enough," he leaned down to whisper to them, making sure nobody was watching, "there's talk of a Dragon in Altara!"

Tarmion furrowed his brow at the news and crossed his arms.

"Has he done anything yet?" has asked curiously. If panic had been the anticipated reaction of the barber he did not show his disappointment at Tarmion's lack thereof.

Zath snorted.

"There's _always_ some talk about _some_ Dragon _somewhere_," the halfman growled with visible annoyance.

Ignoring the disgruntled man he was just shaving, the barber answered in a hushed voice.

"Some say the Dragon's banner has been hoisted. Others say he has already been beaten. Your accents mark you as foreigners, so I thought it save to tell you," he smiled apologetically, earning himself a scowl from Zath.

Tarmion realized it was time to go if he did not want to risk a confrontation between Zath and the shopkeeper, a confrontation bound to draw unwanted attention, so he placed two copper coins into the man's hands.

"May the light bless you, Master Barber."

Zath accompanied him down the road with a frown chiselled into his features.

"May the light bless you, Master Barber," he imitated Tarmion with acid in his voice. "Indeed, he has need of it. Stupid little men talking about things they do not understand. And in no time he either has the whole city up in a frenzy or the _Dragon's Fang_ painted on his doors."

"Telling gossip is half of his work," Tarmion tried to soothe his new friend. "And apparently nobody has yet taken up his stuff about _that guy_ in Altara."

"Maybe. And if we keep having the Dark One's own luck that will stay that way. As much as I like no longer being the cast-out, the last thing I want is being stuck with forty thousand others when a mass panic erupts," he finished with another frown.

With the conversation hanging somewhat unfinished between them, they entered the large square market place in the middle of the city. If he had thought the city to be crowded before, the market place was stuffed with people going after their chores. There was no way to avoid being pushed and pull into one direction or the other, and the only way to move forward was to insert themselves into the slowly moving crowd. There was nothing on the market that interested one of them. All they needed - clothes, provisions, weapons and a second horse - they would find in the streets with the right signs on the corners of the central alley. But still the easiest way to get there was via the market place that dominated the centre of the city. That, and curiosity propelled Tarmion through the masses of people.

It was hot on the market place. Too many people and too little fresh air made it hard to breathe, and after a time he realized he no longer even smelled the stench that penetrated every corner of the city. Zath followed him quietly, squeezing himself through scores of people sly as a snake, his face an unreadable, cautious mask. The houses that surrounded the wide square were the biggest singular buildings Tarmion had seen since he had awoken. In the midst of all the brick and half-timbered city houses they looked doubly gigantic – and misplaced. There was a certain awe to them, he had to admit, if only because they dwarfed the rest of the others. Many featured marble-clad fronts and wide steps leading to entries situated half a dozen feet above the ground level. Some featured ornate coat or arms and were completely hidden behind spiked walls, the tall mansions rising from amidst blossoming gardens. The tallest of all of them however were clearly recognizable as halls of some of the guilds that commanded much of the politics of the city, if the barber was to be believed. The smelters' and blacksmiths' guild hall had a roof of polished copper sixty feet long and half as wide. The jewellers' guild hall was lined with ornate statues just beneath the roof, all painted in gold and silver, with gemstones in a dozen colours for eyes. A steady stream of people did come and go to both houses, and Tarmion thought he saw Zath tense as they passed by the foot of their steps.

Irritated, he wanted to ask him what was going on, but Zath just grabbed his sleeve and dragged him along, hissing "Not here!" under his breath. Once they had reached the corner of the market, the halfman casually leaned against a wall with his back as if nothing had happened.

"What was that good for?" Tarmion snapped.

If Zath Talaka felt offended by his tone, he did nothing to show it.

"Keep your voice down," he stated calmly. "We do not want any attention," he reminded Tarmion with the hint of a smile, "and those guards know their business very well."

"What guards?" Tarmion's anger changed to irritation. He had not seen any guards besides a patrol of the city watch, and that had been half an hour ago. "There were no guards!"

"The six guards spread across the steps of the Jeweller's guild hall," the halfman explained patiently. Tarmion looked back at the wide steps and tried to see them, but none stuck out from the meandering crowd of messengers and customers and smallfolk who simply walked up and down the steps of the richly ornate guild house. He shook his head.

"You must be mistaken, there are no guards."

Zath gave him a look, the same look a very patient scholar would give a very slow learning pupil.

"Look closer. Look for six men who try _not_ to be noticed."

Tarmion scowled but did as he was told. Slowly, very methodically, his gaze wandered over the people climbing the steps, stopped, moved further up, passed a man a head smaller than either of the two of them, continued, then bounced back to the small man. There was something in his posture, something in the piercing way his own gaze checked each and every person that walked up towards the hall's entrance that made Tarmion wary. He tried to look even closer, his brows narrowing down. Now the man's clothes seemed to be thicker than they had been on first glance, his tunic looked as if it was padded, and long bracers made of boiled leather covered his arms who rested so casually close to the sheathed curved blades on his belt that the posture seemed so natural an ordinary person never would have given it a second thought. Suddenly, the man turned his head into Tarmion's direction, and looked him directly into the eyes. Tarmion turned his gaze away as fast as he could and shuddered.

"So, have you seen them?" Zath asked softly, his arms crossed before his chest.

"Only one," he admitted grudgingly.

"As I said, they are very good at what they do. And I fear had I stood there for a longer time, they would have thought of me as a danger just by the way _I_ keep my posture."

Tarmion frowned, shooting one last look at the jewellers' guild hall.

"Let's get going again."

Another thing that Tarmion found to be strange as he and Zath found their way through the crowded streets was that there were no temples. And it seemed strange to him that he had never before realized that religion obviously played no great role in this place, besides a vague belief in the Creator. There were no obvious temples, no bell towers, no orders of monks or nuns, nothing of that sort that one could have expected. As he knew very well, religion usually was a very powerful force. And while blessings for the Light and curses and wards against the Shepherd of the Night were commonplace, nobody had ever formed a religion out of that. To Tarmion, that was a peculiar realisation.

They left the large halls behind them and entered a street that the sign on the corner with it's scissors, needles and cloth marked as the _Tailors' Road_. It was profoundly narrower than the alley that lead to the market place, and the air was heavy with the smell of soap-water and bubbling pots of colouring paste that waited for balls of grey woollen cloth. The upper stories of houses arched over their heads, reducing the sunlit sky above to a narrow beam above. There were also other shops in that street. A lone barber turned to them to offer his services but stopped when he saw their freshly shaven faces. A cobbler eyed their feet, well, their _shoes_, as they walked by, but said nothing while he kept hammering short nails into the sole of a boot. Stray cats were fighting over kitchen refuse, but all in all the road was pleasantly more quiet than the crowded square.

Some of the aides in front of the larger tailor shops eyed them warily, their posture making it clear that they would open the bright silky curtains to the shops' interior only against the proof of hard coins to the likes of Zath and Tarmion. The halfman had expected as much, and Tarmion was content to be lead around by someone who at least had some idea of what he did.

Zath chose a smaller, yet still respectable looking store. A sign with a silver needle and cotton reel hung over the entrance, and while he gave Zath a doubtful look, the shopkeeper with the name of Elmond Veron lead them into his workshop with a welcoming smile. Inside the shop appeared to be a lot bigger than one would have expected from the streets. A long room drew itself to the back for almost twenty paces. Everywhere balls of wool and cloths and pots with ingredients for colours stood, and half a dozen helping hands where preparing clothes, cutting cloth or draping finished tunics over lifelike wooden puppets to give them their final polish.

It took no genius to figure out which of the two potential customers was in need of new clothes, and after the initial courtesies had been exchanged, the tailor stepped forward.

"Ah, yes. Let me have a look at your friend." He positioned himself directly in front of Zath, tucking his lips with a finger while studying the halfman closely. He looked at his face and shuddered, freezing like a mouse in front of a snake. Sweat appeared on his forehead, and it was Zath turning his head aside that broke the spell. After a moment of silence that seemed to stretch for minutes, he nodded furiously and clapped his hands.

"A dark velvet cloak of violet, and a tunic of the same colour with one of those fashionable white lace collars. The look will marvellously suit your pale complexion, if I may says so. And in a week or two, you will look like a king, Master Talaka, I promise you. Like a king!"

"I fear we do not have that much time at our disposal, Master Tailor," Tarmion stated politely, drowning out Zath's derisive snort. "At any other time we would have been honoured to wait for such fine craftsmanship, but can't you make something more mundane for my friend? With the means you already have at hand?"

"I only have this ball of uncoloured cloth," Veron complained, pointing to a grey bundle behind him. "People will say I sell bad goods and that I trick my customers if I let you walk out of my shop in such unfinished and rough garments," he exclaimed, half whining, half in hurt pride, seemingly having forgotten that no five minutes ago he would have had the two of them thrown outside were it not for the coins rattling in Tarmion's purse.

Zath touched the cloth, ignoring the tailor's complaints, and shrugged, his face displaying no hint of emotion at the merchant's tirade.

"The wool is thick and the cloth strong. It will do," he stated in a voice that left little room for discussions.

"For a man of your abilities it should not take much time or effort to make strong clothes for travelling from that," Tarmion joined in, soothing the man's no doubt professional wailing. "Grey will do. Trousers and tunics and cloak, Master Veron, by tomorrow evening."

The tailor's face first turned pale, then red before starting an angry reply, but his tirade stopped on the middle of a word as if he had never spoken it, his eyes clinging to the coin that had appeared in Tarmion's hand. He threw it up into the air and caught it in a fluent movement, smiling at the tailor. Veron ignored the smile, his eyes being fixed on the coin's path.

"A silver mark for your efforts."

The coin was almost as wide as the palm of the smaller man's hand. Tarmion had already learned to adjust to the value of coins after his unintended generosity during his first days. With a silver mark that size one could easily buy a cow, or even a decent horse.

"Twenty copper pennies now, and the mark tomorrow upon completion. After all, nobody should have reason to complain I did not value your good services, Master Veron."

The tailor licked his lips and did not hide his disappointment when the coin vanished back into Tarmion's purse again.

"People certainly will notice how fast your shop does good business. Of course, I would have no reason not to praise your craftsmanship around others," Zath said evenly, obviously getting more used to being among humans and talking to them again with every minute he spent in the city.

Master Veron was greedy enough to realize what that might mean for him - and his purse - and nodded eagerly.

"All right, all right. Light, Master Genda, you and Master Talaka have a way to make people see things your way," he laughed, the prospect of silver clearly outweighing his annoyance about the additional workload. "Gabbon! Anara!" he barked and two assistants rushed to his side to take Zath's measurements while Veron continued to give commands.

The halfman looked quite uncomfortable with that much attention, standing in the afternoon twilight of the tailor shop, his arms stretched sideways. Something in his stance reminded Tarmion of a dog just moments away from snapping for rabbits running around it. While they were taking notes and measurements of Zath's hips and shoulders and legs, Tarmion casually leaned over to the tailor.

"Master Veron, surely a man with so many content customers like you knows a man with a good hand for carving wood...?"

The tailor looked up to Tarmion with pursed lips, wiping a pearl of sweat from his brows. The air inside was hot and sticky, and the cloth of Tarmion's tunic was glued to his back with sweat since the hour before midday.

"Probably...," he started with calculated hesitation, making it obvious even for a stranger like Tarmion that he was willing to say more if the right incentives were given. Usually, copper coins. He could plainly see the greed in the handyman's eyes, but his hands remained away from his purse this time. If he tried to bribe his way through all of Katar even his fortune would dry up rather sooner than later. Casually his cloak slipped aside and revealed the long sheathed dirque on a belt around his waist.

"You know," he said while looking at the rays of light that shone through the dust hovering in the doorway, "you should not overdo it." One hand resting on the pommel, he tried to look as if he did so all the time, hiding the knots in his guts that this kind of posturing usually caused him.

Master Veron bit down a sharp reply with a glance at the weapon and the copper pennies Tarmion still held in his other hand.

"The first road to the east of the marketplace, on the other side of the Council's seat," he said grudgingly. "Ask for a man called Fennek Swifthands. People will show you the way then."

Tarmion managed to produce a smile, realizing he had held his breath the whole time. He bowed slightly to the tailor.

"Thank you, Master Vernon. I shall recommend your fine services to my friends. Zath, are you ready?"

Silently, his companion stepped to his side and they left the shop, entering the crowded streets and their stench again. After they had walked some paces, he frowned, looking at the halfman beside him.

"What was that with the tailor just now?"

"It takes conscious effort to hide my... father's side," Zath explained evenly as if nothing at all had happened. "Even so, I cannot hide it completely, especially not if someone watches me intently. They have a saying in the borderlands: 'The look of the eyeless means fear'." He shrugged. "It's weaker with me than with a true myrddraal," he lowered his voice so that no passers-by could understand him. "A true fade could have played with the tailor like a puppeteer with a puppet."

"I've looked at you closely when we met, but I did not freak out like that."

"No, but you still feel _something_, don't you?"

Tarmion said nothing. He was not afraid of the man that walked beside him, but when he watched him very closely he got a queasy feeling that made him jumpy.

The street the tailor had mentioned was the seat of the carpenters' guild. Whoever worked with wood had their shop here. On the promise of an apple a small boy lead them to a shop in the back end of the road, a narrow brick house clinging to the inner side of the city walls. Inside it was dark and sticky, and but fine carvings in the forms of mythical creatures and leaves of wild wine and knights in extremely detailed suits of armour lined the wooden walls.

"Master Swifthands?" Tarmion tentatively called out.

Motion stirred in the back of the workshop, and accompanied by the clatter of wood on wood and stomped soil an old, scrawny man emerged from the shadows in the backside.

"Yes...?" he answered in a thin voice, his hands resting on a gnarled walking stick that clicked back and forth in front of his feet, his head raised as if he was sniffing them rather than watching them.

"You are blind," Zath stated flatly, and the old man's head bobbed in his direction. He produced a sad and apologetic smile.

"Yes, good sir, I fear my eyesight has left me as I have grown older. But as you can see all around you, my fingers and my mind are still quick and safe."

That much even Zath had to concede, even though none of the men knew exactly how old most of the work they saw was.

"So, what can I do for you, good sirs?"

"I'd like you to make a mask for my friend Zath, one that he can wear most of the time. One he can see, breath and speak through."

Fennek Swifthands nodded curiously and stepped forward faster than anyone would have believed his old bones could manage.

"I can no longer see, but my fingers help me with my measurements," he muttered as his hands brushed Zath's face.

Instinctively, the halfman had tensed and had his hands on the hilts of his daggers. Only slowly he relaxed again, accepting that the strange old man posed no danger to him.

After a few moments the man stepped back, mumbling inaudibly to himself, then nodded as if a discussion had come to a fruitful end.

"Let me see if I have some good wood back in the shop," he hobbled back into the twilight.

"Why a mask?" Zath whispered, and Tarmion leaned closer.

"People concentrate on the mask, and not on the eyes. You won't have to play the blind cripple like that, and it's easy to make up a story for why you would hide your face behind a mask. Some sort of disfigurement. A wound, perhaps, or the results of a childhood sickness," he explained.

Before he could elaborate more, Fennek Swifthands reappeared.

"I'll have it done by tomorrow," the man leaned on his walking stick.

After having to bribe the tailor to do his work that fast the two men were rather surprised at that revelation, but the carpenter dissipated their doubts with the same sad, apologetic smile he had flashed earlier. Since he no longer could see he hardly had any customers left. He had all the time in the world to concentrate on that one piece.

Tarmion left him a handful of coppers as an earnest before the two of them walked back into the crowded streets of Katar.

When the two of them finally returned to the inn, night settled in over Katar.


	6. Mob Business, Part I

**Chapter 6**

**Mob Business, Part I**

They rested better that night than during any night they had camped under the open sky. Even Zath seemed to have relaxed a bit, if Tarmion could decipher as much from the halfman's grey, stoic face. They talked a bit about what they had seen so far of Katar during their breakfast, a rich meal of scrambled eggs and burned bacon, a fresh baked loaf of bread and creamy butter and small smoked fish caught by local river fishermen. Zath motioned that they could easily stay a couple of days longer in the large city. That way they could explore it all, and well, he twinkled with one eye – a very disquieting gesture if the eye is nothing but a ball as black as onyx – maybe there were opportunities to find employ. Tarmion was not so sure whether he wanted to get into somebody else's service but the case the halfman made was sound insofar as their gold would only last so long without them doing something to balance their expenses. He would have rather started something on his own, where he was his own master, but whatever ideas he might have had they were still too vague that he would have opened them up for discussion.

Still, time passed by and the common room emptied of the usual guests that broke their fasts, and after each of the two had had two mugs of dark brown ale the sun had already risen high enough to announce that midday was at best only two hours away. Startled and annoyed by how fast time did pass Tarmion rose, and both men were on their way into the city again.

Zath clicked with his tongue and produced a wolfish smile.

"And now it's time for weapons, my friend."

Tarmion looked up at him in surprise.

"But we have weapons," he mentioned his hammer and Zath's curved daggers.

The halfman's forehead wrinkled.

"A sword is more than just a weapon. It gives you leverage, influence over people who otherwise would not even have noticed you. A hammer will crack open any armour you swing it against, but you cannot bring it along where ever you go, and it does not print that same, special image into people's minds," he shrugged. "As for me, I'm good with my daggers," his hands rested on the curved blades' hilts, "but I lack range. That, and I know how to use one," he grinned, turning his head back towards Tarmion as they walked through the streets.

He thought of the hammer that rested in his room in the inn and frowned. A sound weapon for battle, but less useful for travelling. The thought of carrying a good blade on a belt around his hip had quite some appeal to Tarmion Genda. But was that his thought, or somebody else's? Not for the first time during the past weeks he felt that the man he had created was fast coming the man he was. What shady memory of his past he still had was always on the brink to slipping away, and it took more and more conscious effort to bring back pictures in his mind with every new time. Then there was the subconscious glee of a small boy, the fascination with any sort of weapon, and the short thought, like a howling wind that flared up for a brink of a second, that considered the weapon with derision. He thought of the idea of carrying the hammer around with him and scowled. The bloody thing probably weighed ten pounds or more, and he would have to carry it in his hands all the time.

"Fine enough," he conceded, "but let us first get back to the tailor and the blind craftsman. 'cause if you go into the metalworker's road the way you look right now, more than one shopkeeper will call for the city guard."

Zath stopped, looking down on himself with a scowl.

"You look like a beggar, if they are generous, or like a brigand out to steal some blades right from beneath their noses," Tarmion explained.

"I've grown rather attached to these clothes," the half-myrddraal said slowly after a while. "They were the ones I wore when I decided to free myself."

Tarmion considered that for a moment, then walked up to his new friend, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Then let us bring this transformation to its end. Let us turn the fleeing man in rags into the free man, with new clothes and a new face to let him walk among men." He looked the halfman into his face, looked into the eyes hid behind the piece of cloth. There was only the slightest feeling of fear this time, and he forced himself to smile. A smile which, after a start, was taken up by Zath Talaka. The halfman slowly nodded, his hands instinctively clutching the hilts of his two dangerous dirques.

Master Swifthands made his name all the honour it deserved. He had carved a facemask from a piece of hard cherrywood in a tone of red that seemed to change colours as they walked, meandering into brown and black and crimson depending on how sunlight shone on its surface. The tailor greeted them with a hardly hidden frown that only vanished once Tarmion started to shake his purse. Two of his apprentices finished their work only once Zath had already started slipping out of his old rags into his new set of clothes. When the master tailor had boasted of the quality of his work the day before he had not been far off the mark, the halfman finally remarked in a voice that for the first time since he had met him carried a hint of content. Still, once the man had been paid for his efforts Zath hurried Tarmion towards the metalworker's road, the halfman stepping through the masses as sleek and graceful as a puma, Tarmion following him not really mending his surroundings until they were in the middle of it all.

Metal was the blood that flowed through Katar's veins, and nowhere did that show as clear as between the high stone houses in that road. The metalworker's alley was almost as wide as the central alley, and the sign on the street's corner was twice as large as any other sign Tarmion had seen so far. Most houses were tall, three and more stories high, and built of grey rock that must have come from the Mountains of Mist. Tall chimneys, far wider than those one would see above normal houses, peaked the red tile and black riverstone roofs. Clouds of dark smoke hung over the whole city quarter, originating from a hundred forges where all sorts of metal, but above all others, steel, were worked into form. The heat and noise were tremendous. Basically everywhere fires burned, metal glowed in baths of hot red coals, and every shop sounded as if a madman was banging hammers against all pots in the kitchen with full force. And among all the shops were a good dozen weapon smiths.

Zath's mouth curled into a tight grin at the sight of all those blades.

"If the Archons of Katar don't want to fight for the king, they at least have no qualms with getting rich of his wars," he chuckled, pointing to a dozen counters that held enough weapons to arm a small host for battle.

With a start Tarmion burst into laughter but shut it soon after it drew the looks of other passers-by. He guiltily looked away, to Zath.

"I will scout ahead and look where we can make a good deal," the halfman announced, his voice coming clear and unimpeded from behind his colour shifting cherrywood mask.

Even before he had finished the sentence he vanished into the crowded street, leaving Tarmion to his own devices in the turmoil of heat and sound. Deciding that standing in the middle of the road like a pole-axed ox would do him no good, he simply stepped closer to the next craftsman's shop.

An assortment of blades greeted him on the counter, most of it knives and long daggers in all shapes and sizes. Some axes hung on hooks from above, most easily weighing as much as his hammer did. There was only a handful of swords, short weapons with broad blades. He picked one up, sceptically weighing it in his hands.

"Ah, a man interested in my fine blades! I could see that the moment you entered the market," a barrel-chested man who carried the stench of sweat and wine with him exclaimed loudly, waddling over to where Tarmion had taken up the sword. "Fine steel, crafted by myself," he continued, pointing at the weapon in his hands. "You will find no better weapons in the whole of Katar, bah, what do I say, all the way to the Aiel Waste. All the Lords of Katar buy their blades from me!" he boasted.

Somehow Tarmion had his doubts, not only about that particular claim. It was his first time in Katar, but the city was crawling with people and drew its wealth from the nearby mines where thousands dug for iron and copper. He guessed there were forty thousand people living behind and in front of the walls of Katar, if not more, and master Ebrar's shady armoury did not look like the place where the high born would buy their blades.

"For eight silvers, it is yours, good sir," the armourer looked at him eagerly.

Tarmion almost choked on the price. He had never been good at bartering, considering it a nuisance, but he was not so naïve not to smell a trap when he saw one. He wondered whether he really looked that naïve and innocent to those who saw him. Blood and ashes, eight silvers would buy him a bloody herd of horses! Still thinking about how to counter that ludicrous proposal, an unnerving, yet familiar presence crept into his mind.

"That sword is worth no more than fifty _coppers_, and that already would be generous."

Caran Tureed announced himself with an angry roar that took Tarmion by surprise, making him flinch. It took him a moment to banish the raving madman back into the corner of his mind. It was surprisingly easy this time, but Tarmion had found out early that the man would make himself heard, and if it only was in his dreams. Zath stepped to his side, eyeing both, the blade and the blacksmith with implacable eyes from behind his dark crimson and brown mask. Ebrar was already starting to give him an angry answer when the hooded and masked man continued as if the craftsman was not even there.

"That is an old weapon," he said coolly. "The pommel doesn't fit the hilt, taking it off balance, and the blades are too thin, and blunt," he ran his thumb down the supposedly sharp edge of the sword without drawing any blood. "Look closely at it, and you can see rust sitting in the uneven ripples of the steel."

"Away with you! Who are you that you call me a swindler in my own shop?" he snapped angrily at the hooded man before turning to Tarmion again. "Do not listen to this strange fellow. What does the word of a man count who's running around, wearing a mask. Ten silvers, and that fine blade is yours!"

Having recovered from the surprise, Tarmion could not hide his smile, and it was mocking.

"Wasn't it fifteen just a moment ago?" he raised an eyebrow. He weighed the weapon in his hands, looking at the armourer's suddenly nervous face. "You see, unfortunately I know a little bit about weapons, too, and the one here _is_ off balance, and is rusty. And even more unfortunate for you, the stranger in the mask is a close confident of mine, and he knows a lot _more_ about weapons than I do," he tried to sound confident. The right appearance was already half the deal, somebody had once told him. "That one is hardly worth the steel it was made from," he said with a far sharper tone and thrust the blade back on the armourer's counter. Zath opened his grey cloak and placed his hands on the hilts of his long, curved daggers. "Now you will sell me a good blade, well oiled and with a sharp edge to it, and you will add a belt, a scabbard and oil and whetstone to it, or my masked friend here will drag your fat belly to the guild house faster than you can fart!"

Tarmion was surprised at how threatening he could sound if he only wanted to, and his words did not to fail to have the desired effect upon the man on the other side of the counter.

Ebrar's eyes were frantically switching between Tarmion and Zath, and cold sweat had appeared to pour from the man's bald head. The blacksmith's apprentices had also noticed the exchange, and were now slowly gathering behind the man, some with hammers in their hands, watching, waiting. Other people were stopping by the shop to see the evolving scene unfold. Realizing he was not alone, the stout man licked his lips and stiffened.

"Begone, you fools," he snarled, managing to even sound self-confident. "I've seen enough in my time. Do you two light-blinded idiots really think I can be threatened by some vagrant passers-by in my own shop?" He motioned towards his apprentices, four broad-chested men with thick arms, wearing leather aprons and heavy hammers. "Now go away, before I have my men throw you out!"

Not waiting for any specific order from the blacksmith, two of the broad-chested apprentices started to move.

At the implicit threat, Zath instinctively fell back a step, placing his weight on his back foot in a fighting position. The halfman's hands raced to the daggers on his belt, and he almost had them out by the time Tarmion was able to intervene with a muffled cry of "No!" The blacksmith's eyes were fixed on the two half-drawn daggers, his face a mask of anger and fear.

Tarmion could see anger flashing behind the mask, but he shook his head.

"Let's be on our way." Shocked by how far such simple occasions could escalate, his voice was not as steady as he would have wished. Again he shook his head, pulling the masked halfman along, away from the shop.

They had not walked half a dozen steps before a cry erupted behind them.

"The Guild will hear of this! I will make certain no blacksmith in all of Katar will have you in his shop!" Ebrar yelled after him.

Zath whirled around, anger flashing through the eye slits. Tarmion's hand raced to his side, fumbling for the long knife he always carried, but the halfman crossed the distance in the brink of a moment, snatching the blade from the counter before Ebrar or his apprentices could even react. A muffled cry escaped the blacksmith's throat as Zath swung the sword, his hands shooting up to cover himself. Feeling strangely disconnected from it all, Tarmion thought that stepping back would most likely serve the man better. The blade thundered down, the blacksmith wailed in horror – and Zath safely drove it over the man's head in a wide arc, hammering it into the steel hinges which held the sign over the shop's entrance. The wide blade broke along two thirds of its length, shattering splinters all over the counter and the ground beneath. Work in the shops around them had ceased, and passers-by watched the scene in fear and fascination. No one tried to interfere.

Slowly realizing he was alive and unharmed, Ebrar took his hands down again and stood face to mask with the halfman.

Zath held the splintered and sharp edge of the weapon right before Ebrar's eyes, then held it up for all in the vicinity to see. His posture was absolutely calm, but his voice was iced iron when he spoke.

"Oh yes, the Guild _will_ hear of this!"

He whirled around in his grey cloak and drew Tarmion with him, away from the shop. Curious looks followed them as they marched down the road, but nobody got into their path.

With the immediate danger gone, Tarmion felt the stress pouring from his body. His legs felt weak and wobbly beneath him as he tried to keep up with the wide strides of the determined fade.

"Burn you, I almost pissed my pants!" Tarmion growled after taking a deep breath. He knew he should be afraid - or angry - at Zath for not simply backing down and letting things be the way they were, but strangely enough he was neither the one nor the other.

"What are we going to do now?"

"What I told the fool back there I was going to do: we are going to tell the guild. We have the evidence, and if the guild is anything like the ones I know from the borderlands it does not look kindly on fraud committed by its members. Think of some nice words you want to say. Something about your honour will be the best."

Tarmion could almost see the halfman's face twist in contempt when he said those words. Contempt not about him, but about what most people called honour. He had asked Zath on this when they had been on the road to Katar. To him what most people paraded around as their honour was nothing but an empty cask that acted as a facade for their vanity. It had been strange at first to receive a lecture on such a subject by a man who was the offspring of a creature of the Dark One, but Zath Talaka had principles of his own that he adhered to, principles that had kept him alive and out of the Dark One's grip so far.

"A man who carries his honour like a shield usually is an empty shell; he has nothing else, no personality, no skill, no integrity. Might be that you'll have to be," the mask seemed to smile at him, "a bit creative with the truth. But more often than not the lie turns out to be the smaller disgrace," he murmured more to himself than to Tarmion.

Up close the guild hall of the blacksmiths and metalworkers was even more towering than Tarmion had thought. Inside, Tarmion and Zath explained their complaint to a man sitting behind a counter and behind a wall of parchments and thin, wood-bound books who took none of it too seriously – until the name of the blacksmith involved fell. On the notice of Ebrar Manef's name the scribe's face darkened as if the name itself hurt his ears. He started to shuffle through his papers until he found a small, handwritten notice. Wide-eyed, he first looked at it, then at them, then at the piece of paper again. Demanding them to stay were they were, he hurried away, deeper into the tall building until he vanished through two high copper-framed doors. Tarmion suddenly felt very vulnerable in the middle of all those people. They were all associated with the Guild, just like the man they had threatened not an hour ago. Who knew if Ebrar had not sent someone to the Guild Hall before them to denounce them? He eyed the guards with their broad spearheads and polished breastplates with new anxiety.

After a few minutes the scribe returned, accompanied by a man at least twenty years his senior who wore a blue velvet tunic and a broad-collared silver necklace. His head was bald and wrinkled from age and too much heat and sunlight, but the arms beneath the tunic still identified him as a man who had spent year after year swinging a hammer in a forge. He looked down on them with arms crossed before his broad chest.

"So, has that light-blinded idiot once again tried to sell cheap crap to his customers? Seems like he's gotten to the wrong kind of people this time, eh?" he snorted. "You men have evidence for what you claim? You better should, because the Guild looks after its people, you know, and badmouthing a guild member, even one like Ebrar, will only get you in deep trouble. Just telling you, 'cause you two would not be the first to try such a thing," he harrumphed. "So, have anything to back your word up?"

Carefully, Zath unveiled the broken blade from beneath his cloak. He had wrapped the weapon in layers of cloth so that the splintered end with it's myriad of sharp edges found little opportunity to cut him. Rolling layer after layer of cloth back to show the weapon, he handed it to the patiently waiting Guild Elder.

The wrinkles of the broad-faced man's forehead deepened with each time more of the blade became visible, until it was all plainly in his sight. He pointed to the weapon's hilt in a gesture that was half anger, half resignation.

"Blood and ashes, that _is_ Ebrar's sign." He sighed heavily, muttering to himself in such a low voice Tarmion could not understand a single word. "Let me take that, lad," he said without looking at them, his face sunken in thought, his brows furrowed. Zath handed him the splintered sword. For some moments it seemed he had forgotten both of them as the older man weighed the weapon in his hand. Against his fingers and thick arms, the damaged short sword looked no bigger than a knife. Every blacksmith with only an ounce of self-esteem had a way to mark his products. Exactly how differed between all craftsmen: signs in the pommel, ornaments along the blade, a name carved into the cross guard, the methods were as numerous as the men who employed them, and still to the trained eye, they were easy to find.

With a start the Guild Elder pulled his flashing eyes away from the broken blade and turned his gaze back to the two of them.

"This matter is beyond my say. There are implications here...," he broke off the sentence unfinished and shook his head. "Well, it does not matter, not to at least." He sent the scribe that had patiently waited beside them away with a wink of his broad hand and raised the broken blade once again. Light shining through the wide glass windows in the dome mirrored dully on the weapon, and now the sparkles of rust were also visible to Tarmion.

With a flowing gesture the Guild Elder wrapped the blade into the piece of cloth Zath had handed him with the weapon.

"The Guild Master will have to hear of this," he sighed. "Come with me. You will have to make your case while the evidence is presented." He started up a wide, marble stairway and motioned them to follow him.

With a start, Tarmion fell in with him. Zath joined them in a far more smooth motion. Halfway up the stairs felt eyes on his back. Making deliberate steps forward, he turned back his head and saw two inconspicuous men follow them. They looked so remarkably _normal_ that it took Tarmion a second to notice their studded leather vests and padded cloths and the swords on their hilts. At the top of the stairway two more stepped in before them, escorting them down a long and wide, arched hallway flanked by intricately chiselled marble pillars and high paintings on walls panelled with dark wood. Guild masters, long since dead and buried, watched him pass by with cold eyes staring from life-like painted, leathery faces, a polished chain of iron and silver hanging around each ones' necks.

The hallway ended in a spacious chamber that lead to balcony overlooking most of the city. Their escort followed them inside, and placed themselves in a half circle behind them.

"May the Light illumine you, strangers," a voice as clear and bright as a spring morning welcomed them. "I am Guild Mistress Shimona Senvai," the most beautiful woman Tarmion had ever seen said with a friendly smile.


	7. Mob Business, Part II

**Chapter 7**

**Mob Business, Part II**

Names and polite greetings were exchanged, and Tarmion tried his very best not to stumble over his tongue in Shimona Senvai's presence even while a voice in his head called him a fool for trying to make a good impression on the stunning woman.

Her name was Shimona Senvai, and for all that it was worth she was the most beautiful woman Tarmion had ever seen. She was tall and graceful, maybe five years older than him, and she could just as well have been a queen holding court rather than the Mistress of the Metalworker's Guild. For that position they both had anticipated someone like the grizzled, muscle-packed blacksmith who had lead them upstairs, and not the Domani lady clad in black and crimson satin robes that revealed just enough of her female attributes to make a man dream of the rest - if by then he had not already drowned in her deep green eyes. By all means, a half naked tavern wench dancing on his lap could not have competed with _her_.

The Guild Elder explained to her why the two of them had been taken to her, though it sounded like something he had already said once and only repeated now for the sake of ceremony.

"Then let us not waste any more time and hear the tale from their own mouths," she commanded in a soft voice that carried only the hint of steel with it while she let her eyes slide over Tarmion and Zath with a mix of interest and suspicion. The halfman began, his deep voice coming from behind his brown and crimson mask clear and loud. Shimona Senvai took in the story in silence, her green eyes switching between the two men as they took turns telling the tale. Every once in a while the older blacksmith besides them nodded courtly, even though Tarmion found it hard to concentrate on such details under the commanding presence of that woman. When they were done, Shimona Senvai had not moved an inch from the position she had been when they had started, but her green eyes shone with a cold fire that almost seemed to dampen the early summer heat of Katar.

"We Katari craftsmen take pride in our work, for what is a person without pride?" she asked softly, the soft sound of steel being bared. "It is good you came to us, for Manef's transgressions are not only an insult against the Guild's reputation but also a stain on our pride that has to be cleansed again."

She sighed, but from her mouth even that sound seemed, well, less mundane than from somebody else's. Fool! a voice in his mind called out, and this time it did not matter whether it was his subconsciousness or one of his 'guests' as he had to agree. But she continued to talk before the thought could strike roots.

"Under ordinary circumstances the Guild would compensate you for the troubles that Master Manef has caused you and would then demand the money back from him. You have to understand, even the best craftsman is not infallible, and sometimes even the best tool can break. But the Guild needs trust in our craft, for without trust, who would buy from us? It is good that you came to me, Masters Genda and Talaka, instead of setting down in the nearest tavern to tell everybody willing to hear what crooks all the Guild's blacksmiths are. And sad enough, Ebrar very much is a crook. He has troubled us before, and more than once, and I fear this time it has been one time too many for the Guild to still hold a sheltering hand above him."

She placed her cup back on the table, and for a moment grimaced as if the tea had turned to ashes in her mouth. That's not a woman used to give in to somebody else, Tarmion thought for himself but kept his mouth shut. It was strange how she had him under his spell. He could not speak for Zath as the halfman seemed to be dispassionate as ever behind his mask, but it was strange nonetheless. After all, she could not be much older than Tarmion himself, and she was by far not the first woman he had met, and not the first beautiful one either. Still, it was hard to concentrate on anything else in her presence, and-.

[The flame and the void], the all too familiar voice of Caraan Tureed appeared from the depths of his mind, but this time he sounded like a teacher and not like a raving lunatic. [The flame and the void], he repeated, [so that you can think clearly and analytically]. The madman sighed heavily. [I thought they would teach you youngsters _that_ much during the first weeks. How could you pass exams without knowing that? How could you sing a song when you are distracted]?] his voice grew shriller and became filled with short barks of laughter. [How could you kill a puppy and catch that special moment when the life leaves it's cuddly eyes. Or, or, what would you without the void and the flame if you wanted to see a man turned inside out? Or-].

SHUT UP!

Sweat had appeared on his forehead and he realized his mouth had twisted, realized the inquiring look on the Guild Mistress's face.

"You are suddenly so pale, Master Genda? Are you not feeling all right? I can call for a healer if-."

"No!" he cut her off far more harshly then he had wanted to. His mouth felt dry as he shook his head. "No, that will not be necessary, Mistress Senvai," he repeated more calmly. "It's only the heat of the city and weariness from long days on the road. I didn't want to sound so harsh... again, thank you," he finished sheepishly.

She gave him a long, searching look before nodding curtly.

"As you wish. Geron, take the blade and order a patrol of the Guild's guard to close down Master Ebrar's shop. Throw the maggot into the dungeons until a council can be gathered to judge his misdeeds."

The broader of the two men silently waiting in the room with them, nodded and almost simultaneously turned on his heels, leaving the room.

"I hope you will not let this regrettable incident tar your impression of Katar and the Guild when you travel the lands. Let this be your compensation: Donvar, escort these two good men to the Guild's armoury. They may each choose a blade to their liking." Once more she nodded courtly to Tarmion and his companion. "If you excuse me now, there are other matters that need my attention. Master Genda, Master Talaka, may the Light always illumine your paths."

When Tarmion and Zath had left the audience chamber the smile on Shimona Senvai's face vanished and was replaced by a brooding grimace as if it had never been there. She was a high born daughter of one of the most influential houses of Katar, and one of the most influential people in the city herself. As such, she was not used to answering the complaints of travelling strangers, but the reputation of the Guild was more important than her pride, and those two had at least been two _interesting_ strangers. Nonetheless, the whole affair had been an insult to her pride, her honour, and if there was one thing she did not forget it were insults. Something that Ebrar would realize very soon much to his regret.

Katar's central marketplace was crowded again, even though there were fewer people there now during the afternoon hours than around noon. There were always merchants, and peasants and mongers here selling their goods, on every day of each week. Katar was far too large and its surrounding land too populous to only have one fixed market day every ten days, and Zath and Tarmion had found out in many a conversation that the more persistent marketeers had fixed places for their stalls they guarded like only hens would guard their eggs.

The two men drew no particular attention as they walked across the bustling place, besides the usual queer looks that the halfman's mask generated. Zath's eyes had shone like those of a small child on its nameday when the guard named Donvar had handed the two of them over to the Guild's own armourer with Shimona Senvai's explicit orders. The man had scornfully observed them until Zath had moved away from the elaborately decorated showcase blades and turned his attention to a fine selection of plainer blades. The myrddraal had checked each and every one of them, and the armourer's look had changed to that of grudging respect. In the end Zath had chosen a thirty-eight inches long broadsword for Tarmion and an almost fifty inches measuring one-and-a-half handed longsword for himself, both in well-made wooden scabbards.

At first Tarmion had felt awkward with the blade hanging on the belt around his hips, but scabbard and belt and blade alike were well balanced and soon he found himself no longer realizing the weight he carried. Moreso, he registered that a casually worn sword elicited a measure of respect from other people. Still, sword or not, they had to shuffle through the mass of sellers and buyers and the cacophony of sound and smell a large city's marketplace created. After two days the smell no longer seemed to be as overbearing as it had been before, but the hundreds of voices and menial noises still made his ears ring. It was until they were well in the middle of it that Tarmion realized he was standing amidst a swelling crowd of people who were intently listening to a man in travelling fatigues who stood on a marketeer's stall.

So the rumours _had_ come around, and most certainly had done so with the eager help of a certain barber who claimed to be oh so secretive. Tarmion could feel the chill going through the crowd, like an electric current running underneath, and he did not like it one bit. People were murmuring and moaning, many were cursing, and eyes that had wanted nothing more than to buy turnips for supper now were wide with fear. No two days from now, and he was sure the _Dragon's Fang_ would pop up on dozens of doors. Neighbour would suspect neighbour, and people who had been friends for ages would avoid each other's eyes. He did not need to understand the deep-seated fear of the Dragon to understand that much. Fear was universal. Soon paranoia would have the whole city in its grip, and a return to normality would be oh so hard. And in the meantime, terror would reign. Afterwards he did not even remember why he did it, but suddenly he had climbed onto a barrel and found himself overlooking most of the crowd.

"You should all listen to yourselves, it's a bloody disgrace!" he shouted, cutting of the speaker who was just narrating something another traveller had told him to the crowd. "If your children come to you tonight because they fear the bogeyman in their wardrobe, I hope you will all believe them. After it, it seems you believe in him yourselves, from what I'm hearing here!"

"These people have a right to know what I have learned!" the other speaker shot back at him. "A man declared himself Dragon in Altara!"

"Every once in a while some fool declares himself the 'Dragon Reborn', and half a month later he's swinging from some tree along a major road with a rope around his neck. You know why people declare themselves 'The Dragon'? Because that's the easiest way to attract fodder for the crows for an otherwise lost cause. If you'd counted the fools who have called themselves Dragon locally this century alone we'd be standing here all afternoon long," he stated dryly.

"And who are you to say that? Why should the good people of Katar trust you?"

"They don't have to, but they might want to listen to some common sense once in a while. Oh, I might not have travelled that road myself, yeah, but you, spouting unfounded rumours of the sort 'My father's brother's cat heard the miller's dog say' are undoubtedly a fountain of worldly wisdoms," he shot back, earning himself some laughter from the crowd. "Every fool can declare himself the Dragon, blood and ashes! I could do so, right here, and then what? Would suddenly fire spring from my eyes and lightning from my arse? Old Ruland back there could declare himself the 'Dragon Reborn', but he'd still be just the beggar on the street corner."

Laughter from the crowd greeted that image, but he cut it off angrily.

"Ah, so if it's that, you laugh, but if it's some other guy halfway around the world, you all suddenly behave like a flock of chicken whose seen a lone fox! How is that any different from what I just demonstrated?" He gave the former speaker a disdainful look. "You want to scare these people into panic? Well done, you've almost achieved that, and for nought, you fool."

The other man clenched his jaws and shot him an hateful glance.

"And then what?" Tarmion shouted with a wide gesture. "Two days hence, the _Dragon's Fang_ would have appeared on any door where neighbours had an old score to settle. A week from now, there would be blood. And a month later, you'd have the _Children of Light_ in Katar, rooting out the Shadow in their very own fashion," he spat out. "In the end, there would be hunger and bloodshed and riots long before that man, even _if_ he did exist, came to Katar."

"But what if he really is the Dragon?" someone shouted from amidst the crowd.

Tarmion furrowed his brows and took a deep breath.

"Well, I guess then your next question would logically be: Blood and ashes, why would that guy be a threat to Katar when he's trying to fulfil the prophecies of the _Karentheon Cycle_, which just happen to be done at any other place _but_ Katar," he snorted. "And even _if_ there is a guy naming himself Dragon in Altara, and even _if_ he has raised an army: Altara's almost _four hundred_ leagues away from Katar! Do you people have any idea how long it would take an army to master that distance? You there, you look like a soldier! Do you know it?"

A weather-beaten gaunt fellow in a studded leather vest and high boots frowned at him, then shrugged.

"An army on foot masters maybe fifteen miles a day, if they have a good supply train," he explained in a rough voice more used to shout than to talk. "On horseback, maybe twenty five miles, if the road's good." Which was a pretty huge 'if' with regards to a north-south connection towards Katar.

Tarmion looked down on the crowd triumphantly.

"There you have it! At such pace, that 'Dragon' would be in Katar around Midwinter's Eve," he snorted. „If you really want to be good men and women who walk in the Light, be an example to your children and go home and keep living your lives. Buy goods on the markets, work in your shops, drink your ale, and let the good people of Altara do the necessary lynching." He stepped down from the barrel, frowning, but the other speaker made no further attempts to incite the crowd. "A good deed every day," Tarmion mused, surprised about his own courage.

"Do we know who those troublemakers are?" she asked with a voice as soft as velvet, her strength only showing in her ice-blue eyes as he poured hot tea into a richly coloured cup made of almost unbelievably thin porcelain.

"A man in green and brown travelling clothes, with short brown, almost red hair. Carried a sword on his belt, but looked awkward to me," he snorted with a thin grin. "The other was a-"

"-man in grey robes, his face hidden by a mask that shifts colours, and he moves as graceful as a mountain cat. Also carries a sword," Shimona finished for Donvar, whose quizzical look she commented with a smile of her own. "Truly, the Wheel weaves strange patterns, or so it seems."

"You know them, Mistress?" the grizzled fighter asked before biting his tongue for posing this uninvited question.

Shimona Senvai let the insult pass without taking notice of it.

"No good deed goes unpunished," she mused more to herself then to him in particular, nipping on the hot tea, her eyes darting to a far away place, sunken in thoughts. After a few moments they refocussed back on the wiry frame in front of her.

"Have they seen you?"

Donvar shook his head emphatically, and she nodded. There was no reason to doubt the man in such matters. The Guild had men like him in its service for having precisely these abilities, and Donvar had never failed her before.

"Has the fraudster already been caught?"

"That fat pig Ebrar?" Donvar snorted in disgust before remembering who he was taking to. He straightened. "Yes, Mistress, the culprit has been brought into the dungeons by the Guild's watchmen during the last hour."

The Guild Mistress delicately placed the cup back down on the wide polished table and folded her hands, her mouth remaining fixed into her quizzical smile. There was an opportunity here, if she played her cards right... .

"Bring him to me," she commanded. "Tell him, the Guild... no, don't tell him anything. And make sure none of you are seen."

Donvar bowed and left the Guild Mistress to herself. The situation could still be salvaged for the Guild - if she played her cards right.

After the crowd had dissipated, the two men had sought a place to fill their stomachs with hot food and cool drinks and had found the _Wayfarers' Corner_, a simple but well-kept brick and timber framework tavern on the southern front of the market. Travellers, carters and master craftsmen from the surrounding smaller shops constituted the regular clients, and the innkeeper was a stout, dark skinned man in his early forties with still full, black hair with only few strands of grey in between and a well-trimmed beard.

They soon came into a conversation, and it turned out that he had been watching the scene from the entrance of his inn. Apparently more than one shopkeeper in Katar had been all too aware of what a mass panic would mean to him and his income. He was not too fond of the idea of a false dragon hoisting his banners.

"Still, Altara's a few good hundred leagues away from Katar, and getting the city into a frenzy will do no good to anybody," he harrumphed. "And as you said, before people know what's happening they'll be at each other's throat because somebody somewhere might have said this or that one may support the false dragon, and then – poof! - you have the city in flames. No, Yran Relloc does not need that, good sirs!" He placed two large pints of strong ale on the table then, and kept the mugs coming from then on.

The _Wayfarers' Corner _had started to fill with their arrival, and after hot stew and cool beer had put oil on troubled waters, others came to their table, clinking mugs and talking about how relieved they were and how it should have been one of them to make a stand. Not long after that it was getting crowded around the table, and cards and dice appeared and the talk turned to jokes and gossip and banter. After a day filled with anxiety of one or another kind Tarmion felt like sinking into a hot bath, and even Zath, reluctant to be too closely among strangers, relaxed visibly as the hours passed. Someone produced a flute, another one started to sing, and with mugs and fists the rhythm was pounded on solid wooden tables. The songs were easy enough for Tarmion to soon start singing himself. Never before during the past weeks had he felt that good.

It was already long past midnight when the inn started to empty again, and the two chose to leave with most of the others. Last good byes and japes and friendly words were exchanged, and off they were into the night-time streets of Katar. For Tarmion, veteran of many binges and even more feasts, the steam hammer of fresh night air came not unexpected – but it came nonetheless. Zath seemed to be less affected, most likely a result of his myrddraal blood. Tarmion still could think clearly, even if it was the twisted form of clarity one often found with drunken people. This time his mind and body told him in no uncertain terms that the content of his stomach was demanding a way out - any way. Leaning heavily against a nightly house wall, he motioned Zath to move on.

"No worries, I'll find the way!"

Like always with the drunk, that came out too loud, and in a distorted muffle, but the halfman simply nodded tiredly and shuffled on.

Closing his eyes, Tarmion let his head rest against the wall before applying an old traditional remedy against intoxication: he stuck a finger into his throat. The result was as immediate as it was ugly. The half digested contents of his stomach shot out of his mouth in half a dozen strokes, and the stench of puke and bile filled the formerly clear night-time air. The taste of bile would go away eventually, and as nasty as puking might be, ten years as an adult accustomed to alcohol had taught Tarmion that it was preferable to the cruel hangover the next day otherwise would bring. Resting with his eyes closed and breathing slowly, he felt sleep approaching on fast feet, the fatigue finally catching up. When he turned around and noticed their footsteps, they were already on him.

Clubs and fists dashed down on him, and Tarmion cried out as much in pain as in surprise. Something hit him on the head, and he felt something warm run down his cheek. All was in a blur, swirling fists and angry shouts and growls and curses. He tried to shield his face with his arms, but the blows only moved downwards and battered against his chest and belly instead. Hot, searing pain ran through his ribcage, and fear and anger fully took control of him. He saw metal flash, and in panic he drew his own long knife, forgetting the sword he had gotten just toward.

Pushed by a flare of fear and adrenalin, he dove under another blow with a heavy club and rammed the blade deep into the other man's belly. He felt the blows coming down on his back, but the pain was subdued. A grey shadow emerged from the dark street with an angry hiss. Again and again the long knife vanished into the grunting man's body, until warm and sticky blood covered all his hands and the attacker dropped down on the cobblestone floor, still and dead.

Zath stood besides him now, calm and still again, his blades already sheathed again. The others were running away, two of them limping severely where Zath's blades had cut them.

The knife dropped from his grip, and he emptied his stomach again.

The halfman looked at him for a long time, then at the body at his feet.

"Come," he took him by his arm almost gently. "Let's get the horses, friend. We have to leave this place, and as fast as we can."

Tarmion did not nod, but simply let himself be lead away by his companion, feeling that something deep inside him had been forever shattered.


	8. Mob Business, Part III

**Chapter 8**

**Mob Business, Part III**

For most of the ride he had done the talking. That by itself was unusual and was tearing at him. He was not used to being talkative, and he was not used to having to look after anybody but himself. But even Zath realized that he had to keep an eye on his friend. The night's events had been harsh on him, even though there were few physical signs of that. Zath had briefly studied him when they had packed up all their belongings from the tavern in a hurry and saddled two horses in the middle of the night in a scarcely lit barn. Tarmion was bruised and had been bleeding from superficial cuts, and he had been in pain, but he had not moaned or complained once during their early flight, or even during the day's ride. That alone made Zath watch him all the closer while they rode.

Getting out of the city had been easier than he had anticipated, a fact owed to his caution and his unconscious comparison of every keep and town and city here with what he had grown to know from the Borderlands. Katar's gates had been open, and the streets had been empty. The hour before dawn was the quietest, here just as in the places he remembered from his earlier years. The had raced through the streets, two men clinging to their saddles, pulling a pack horse behind them. It was just a matter of time until somebody would find the body and the blood, and the tight knot in Zath Talaka's belly signalled him that this had not been the end of it. There had been something about the attackers that made him uneasy, some hint of recognition. Maybe if his own head became less clouded, he would see what it had been.

This intuition had also been a reason for their rash escape. If they were caught close to the corpse, even the most lenient magistrate would hang them or do worse things, especially once they realized what he himself was. Still, even if he wanted, there was not way back to Katar now. Not after he had stolen the horses right from under the noses of their owners. Getting away from the place of the deed had been his first priority, and despite him being a lousy rider a horse carried one faster than your own feet. Besides that, Tarmion also had not made a picture of elegance in the saddle, clinging to his steed tight lipped and cautious.

Nobody had stopped them on their way out, though. The guards at the gatehouse they passed through had all been inside, huddled before a fire place, and half of those had been asleep already. Zath had driven their horses as fast as he dared, and after an hour they had been far enough away from Katar that the city vanished behind a ridge on the horizon while the glowing red orb of the early summer sun crouched over the Mountains of Mist in the east, inch by inch.

Dawn brought light, but no warmth. After the days in the crowded heat of Katar, riding through the open countryside made him realize again that summer had not yet come, and would not be fully there for another couple of weeks. It was almost hot compared to the Borderlands, and again, cool compared to the sticky, foul and sweet atmosphere in the Blight. Still, he would prefer every desert and every icy wasteland to the horrors and memories of the Blight and who he had been there.

A sharp west wind was chasing towers of white clouds towards the mountains, and it was getting sharper with every minute the sun kept rising in the sky. Zath Talaka embraced it. It washed away the memories of the Blight, the foul aftertaste he almost could feel in his mouth when he thought about it, and it helped him getting his head free of the hangover that kept nagging him.

Tarmion's eyes had sunken deep into their sockets, and there was an empty and hollow glare to him that made even Zath uneasy, not because he felt threatened by it, but because he had no idea how to respond to his friend's condition.

After they had put their heels into their steeds for the better part of the morning, the silence became unbearable for Zath. That, also, was a first for him. Trollocs and myrddraal did not make for pleasant conversation partners, and earlier in his life he had embraced the silence.

"If you want to rest, I think we have put enough miles between us and the city get of the horses' backs for a while," he finally said, leaning a bit backwards so that Tarmion could hear him – and he see him.

The auburn-haired man turned around in his saddle to look over his shoulder and winced, his face twisted in a grimace of pain, but no sound crossed his lips. He looked straight ahead again, but there was an unsteady flicker in his view, as if he was fighting with himself inside his mind. After they had ridden for a few more moments, he drew his horse's reigns and stopped.

"Fine," he responded thinly, "let's walk a bit."

Their first steps on the ground were an awkward experience, more limping ahead than walking. It took Zath conscious efforts to relax his strained muscles, and his arse and legs felt sore and ached from the unfamiliar stress. Tarmion looked much the same, but with him there was no relaxation, and his hand never wandered far off his sword hilt.

There were few travellers on the road that had brought them closer to the mountains, and the handful they met were too busy with their own tasks to really give them more than a casual glance.

The sun blinked through holes in the racing clouds, high in the sky and far too bright for Zath's liking. Where its rays were reflected on the ground in puddles and streams in the fields besides the road, his vision blurred and did white out, adding more drumming thunder to the Trolloc war band playing in his head. Zath was not particularly fond of the sun, to put it in polite terms. The time of the day he loved the most were those moments of twilight before dawn and after nightfall. Then the world shone in all its colours for him. Then he felt the most alive.

They stopped for a mid day rest about half an hour later in a small forest. The sun still shone only weakly, but at least they were safe from the biting wind between all the trees.

"I feel like I've been riding on a rubbing board," was the only complaint Tarmion uttered. In fact, it was the only utterance at all during their mid day rest. They had made camp a handful of paces away from the road, behind thick bushes. Zath took it upon himself to prepare the meal and a pot of hot tea for their break. He found a small stream a hundred paces besides the road, winding its way through the forest ground like a long snake. When he stood up after filling the small cooking pot with clear, cold water, Tarmion stood beside him, watching the stream flow by.

He watched as Tarmion stared at his reflection in the water for a second before he frantically started to scrub the dried blood and dirt and puke stains away. When he was done with it, he was panting and his clothes were wet, but there was a certain air of calm satisfaction around him that had not been there before.

"I didn't even draw my sword," he muttered. "They would have killed me if I hadn't...," his voice trailed off and he scowled. "I can't get his face out of my mind." He shook his head and walked back to their fireplace, water dropping from his hair and his clothes.

They spend the rest of their break in silence. Tarmion looked pale, almost as much as himself, Zath thought worriedly, but he kept his concerns to himself, just as his companion did with his own ones. When they were done, Zath hid the fireplace and they remounted their steeds.

Zath was riding a red destrier, Tarmion sat in the saddle above a black mare. Given their lousy riding skills it was a miracle none of them had fallen off the horses' backs so far, but the animals had been surprisingly good-natured towards their new riders.

It was already late afternoon when Tarmion spoke up again.

"We should leave the road," he insisted, looking back over his shoulder.

"I don't think they are still following us," he replied, adding in thoughts 'if they have ever done so to begin with'. Still, he complied, and at the next crossing they lead their horses onto a grass-covered road that lead eastwards into the woods. There were only few tracks visible here. Obviously far less travel was going this way than there was on the main road.

It was the last afternoon hour when they reached a small farmstead surrounded by fields in the middle of a forest clearing.

The road ended in a square of tamped earth and gravel in front of the high roofed farmhouse. Cows and sheep grazed on fenced meadows behind it while crops, still young and green, were sprouting from the fields besides the road. Two buildings framed the square, the smaller of them being a flat-top shack for the sheep and chicken, the larger one, larger even than the farmhouse itself, being the barn for the cattle. Hay was sticking out from an open door from its second floor against which a wooden ladder leaned. A small garden for vegetables and a row of apple trees could be made out behind the barn.

All buildings appeared to be old, but solid and in decent shape, built from quarrystones and covered with roofs made from wooden shingles. Here and there paint was coming off in flakes, and there was a certain slight messiness to the place, as if it was being worked on by too few hands to really get everything done _and_ keep things in order.

Their approach did not remain unnoticed. Halfway down the road, a woman with fiery red hair stepped out of the fields and hurried back to the farm house. There, a gaunt, older man in brown woollen pants and a red, long-armed tunic sat on a stump, absent-mindedly carving figures from a piece of hard wood.

The man, apparently her father, just looked at them, looked _through_ them, and smiled weakly. An old, long scar marked his jaw, but his teeth shone white and full through his smile. The scar, however, was not his only disfigurement. Only two of his left hand's fingers remained, and it seemed as if both ears had been cut off, leaving softer scar tissue in their place.****

As they stopped in front of the square and the round well in its centre, the woman stepped out of the house again, holding a spear in her hands.

"The Light shine on you, strangers," she greeted them in stark contrast to the weapon in her hands. "What brings you here?"

Zath's head turned to Tarmion and waited, but the man only sat in his saddle and watched the ground in brooding silence.

"We are on our way from Katar, and need shelter for the night," Zath finally managed.

Meanwhile, her father had come closer and started to eye them more thoughtfully. Zath could not shed the feeling he was being weighed by the unfocussed gaze of the crippled man.

"We try to mind our own business here," the younger woman replied cautiously, stepping before the muttering older man as if to protect him from harm. "The next village has an inn, and it's four hours away."

"And we do not mean to cause you any burden at all," he replied with a sideways glance at Tarmion he sat still in his saddle. "It's less than an hour till the sun starts setting, and you said yourself that the next village is at least an afternoon's ride away. All we are asking for is a dry place to rest for the night. Of course, you will receive compensation for that, no question that."

A silver coin appeared in his other hand. He threw it, and the curly-haired woman skilfully caught it in mid-air.

She eyed the silver carefully.

"I've never seen a coin like this," she explained doubtfully.

"It's silver, isn't it?" Zath shrugged and slid from his saddle. "Give us a place for the night and you can keep it."

The fiery-haired woman gave the coin a last, thoughtful look, then let it slid into one of her skirt's pockets with a nod.

"Show me a place for our horses, please, and I will help you with the day's chores," he promised her politely.

They led the horses to the adjacent barn, leaving Tarmion standing with the older man outside. There were no empty boxes left, but hay covered the ground and Zath easily bound the animals to the open beams of the building.

"Forgive me, I did not introduce us," he first looked at the woman, then at the men outside.

"His name is Tarmion, Tarmion Genda. A traveller from Cairhien," he pointed outside where Tarmion and the elder were eyeing each other - if one could call their unfocussed glances 'eyeing'.

The woman looked at him, startled for a moment, then shook herself and blushed.

"Burn me, I'm too alone out here," she muttered, then realized what she had said, and blushed a little bit more.

Despite himself, Zath smiled a bit behind his mask.

"I am Marisa," she pulled herself together, "Marisa Tane, and the man outside is my father, Azral," she replied more steadily. "What is your name?"

"I am called Zath Talaka," he answered her, hardly pronouncing the first vowel in his last name.

"Zath," Marisa repeated his name curiously. "I've never heard a name like that."

"It's Schienarian," the man whose name meant Evenhanded Death in the Trolloc tongue replied calmly. It was a lie, but a lie comfortably close to the truth for him.

"Schienar!" she gasped. "But that has to be, well, a thousand leagues from here!"

He shrugged, taking the saddlebags from the horses.

"More or less, yes. I've been keen to explore the world," he added another innocent lie to the potpourri. "Everything's better than fighting Trollocs in the Blight."

"Trollocs, eh? Burn me, now you're trying to make fun of me with those bedtime stories," she snorted derisively. Zath had no idea how to react to that. That someone doubted the very existence of the Trolloc threat was a novelty to him. But before he could think of an answer, Marisa had changed the topic again. "Why are you wearing a mask?"

For that question to come he had waited for some time now. Most people simply were afraid to ask it, as the mask and his demeanour gave him the air of mystery.

"Somebody thought it a good idea to work my face with a torch one time," he said gruffly. "A mask generates less stares than my true face would. What's with your father?"

Surprised at his sudden change of topic, it took her a few moments to gather her thoughts.

"He's been like this since my mother died some years ago," she replied a bit too defensively for his liking. "Sometimes he's just fine, but on other days he's well, like today."

"I see. Forgive me my curiosity," he continued, "but what happened with his ears?""

Burn me, I am getting better at those empty phrases!

"Frostbite," she shrugged.

That was fair enough. He had seen people lose limbs to frostbite, back north in the borderlands. Most likely, this close to the Mountains of Mist if you were not prepared and got surprised by the cold, it could cost you a finger or two, or your life.

"And your friend? He looks, well, distraught to me. A bit like my father, to tell the truth."

"He's killed a man in self-defence last night."

Her anger flared up.

"You told us you were no danger! I want none of this in my father's house!"

"And we _are_ no danger to you." He was surprised at how soothing he could sound if he really wanted to. "We were attacked on the street at night. Katar's a dangerous place," he shrugged. "We were not careful enough. My friend there got beaten up pretty badly," he tilted his head into Tarmion's direction. The auburn-haired man had begun to unpack his saddle bags and had settled down besides Marisa's father, staring blankly at his woodcarving fingers.

"Show me what I can do to help you," he pushed her onwards, past Tarmion and the older man.

"He's a lot more resolute than he looks," Zath said looking at his companion, hoping it to be the truth.

Tarmion and the older man had sat down besides the well. His dark cloak was soaking up the late afternoon sun while the old farmer was sitting besides him, cross-legged, carving something from a piece of wood with surprisingly precise movements.

"You know, I killed a man," Tarmion said broodingly, his hands playing with the pebbles on the ground. The elder's head tinted only slightly towards him, but his hands and eyes remained on the piece f wood he was working on.

[The numbness one feels after extraordinary events have shaken one from the usual procédere of one's life is a defence mechanism of the mind], Caran Tureed lectured, his baritone voice sounding unusually formal and matter-of-factly.

"It was self-defence, but I still feel guilty. I don't even know why," he frowned.

[What we generally call a state of shock helps the mind cope with the changed situation and the massive stress it involved], the long dead channeller continued his own speech. [Depending on the amount of emotional attachment, psychological frailty and one's determination one can deduce the effects of such a state.]

"They would have killed me, you know. I don't even know what for. Fuck, by all means I should be angry that I got only one of them, but whenever I think about it, my hands start shaking," he stated with a frustrated sigh. The pictures of the blood and the body still turned his stomach.

[Effects of physical violence against oneself and against others are among the most obvious triggers of a state of shock. Often they concur with the feeling of a loss of innocence and the breaking of presumed assumptions which have been fundamental to one so far].

"I don't really belong here. This is not my place. Somehow, I feel lost, you know. This is not right, but what once was is getting more blurry with every day."

[Instrumental to a change of the state of shock is often talking about it, just as is drawing one's own conclusions about what truly has changed in one's perception of reality. For example, it has been empirically proven that councillors and magistrates have often resented tougher measures against violent crime and supported educative initiatives even in the light of overpowering evidence of its inefficiency. Only when personally confronted with such crime and ripped from the fabric of their everyday life have those been willing to change their perceptions of reality].

"I have a sword," he patted the hilt of the weapon he had placed on his crossed legs. "I didn't even think about using it. Panicked, just like that," he tried to snap his fingers, and failed. "Next time, I need to be _better_. I cannot just go on, wandering around like this," he frowned. "I need something to do." He smiled, more to himself than to the old man besides him. "There are quite a couple of things I know. Great things are about to happen. And I don't think I just want to be a fence sitter in them."

[The neuro-chemical processes at work are too complex to be debated in a first-semester class here. Next meeting, we will find out which regions of the mind are at work if you form the void.]

A wave of cosy warmth flooded through his body, soothing his many aches like muscles relaxing in a hot bath. He heard Caran Tureed howl triumphantly, heard Sero cry out in fear, heard the thousand other voices moan in a sad cacophony... and the feeling was gone. All of a sudden, he felt empty, _deprived_ of something great. And strangely enough, he instinctively knew it was not something he could ever do himself, ever get close to himself.

Turned his head. Azral's hand still rested on his shoulder, and the older man smiled and nodded sagely, his eyes fixed on an imaginary point somewhere far away.

It was a rough statue, its wings spread defiantly, four firm clawed paws resting steadily on the imaginary ground while a bushy tail rose above its body. On a muscular neck sat the head of an eagle, its beak open in a triumphant scream. It was a griffin.

They had gone to sleep right after nightfall, huddled around the fireplace in Azral's house. Zath's labour on the fields and chopping wood had earned them that. The fire was still burning, albeit low, when the lurk woke Tarmion again. Zath leaned over him, his crimson and brown mask hiding his solemn face.

"There are people in the woods around the farm," he stated with the same unnatural calm.

Tarmion rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the sleepiness.

"They are armed. We have been followed."

"What now?" Tarmion hissed, looking at the two farmers' bed chambers.

"Wake them, and barricade the door." Zath's cloak slid to the ground. "I will go out and meet them on my terms. If I fail... well, do your best. Good luck."

For more than a year he had not done what he was about to do now. He feared it, feared that it might not work. But most of all, he feared that it might take more of a toll on him than he was willing to pay.

The riverstone-built well threw a long shadow against the flickering light reaching out of the house from behind him. Maybe a dozen paces further away, the twilight merged with the night. Zath took a long, deliberate step forward and drew his two curved daggers. Even a cut with one of those two blades was lethal, the metal forged with foul craft in the forges of Thrakandar. They had a green shimmer to them in what little moonlight remained. Then, the shadows of the night swallowed even that little light.

Zath fell into a light trod, inhaling, exhaling evenly, deeply. By now the men in the fields and along the edge of the forest had realized he had started to move. Muffled shouts reached his ears, but he did not need to rely on his ears to mark their positions. Like a full myrddraal, Zath Talaka saw better in darkness than normal humans did.

His pace quickened, steering towards the trunk of a tall oak lining the dusty road to the farm. The darkness its shadow threw called out for him, teased him. With a leap he landed in the shadows - and embraced them.

The pale colours of the world he usually walked in vanished, giving way for a world of full, bright colours. He felt lighter here; his feet carried him much faster and much further than in that other place. His senses were clearer, sharpened, letting him react to his surroundings in an instant now. All was bright and clear and focussed, almost perfect. Too perfect. There was a sticky, overwhelmingly sweet smell to all of it, like rotting flesh, decay hiding behind crispy clear sounds and lively colours. It was an oily sweetness that clung to ones nose and skin, one that seemed to slowly creep beneath one's skin, too.

Ignoring it, Zath stormed along the paths were the colours were the brightest.

Shade dancing was not really something one could put into exact words. When he embraced the shadows, it was like taking a narrow step besides what was otherwise real. Moving here was more like swimming in an infinite number of rivers than walking from one point to another. The shadows had... currents. Where the shadows was the most complete in the other world, here the colours were the brightest, the fullest, and taking those paths meant being swept forward with the power of a thundering mountain stream.

Like good swimmers, myrddraal mastered such currents with almost lazy ease, being able to master huge distances by skipping from 'pond' to 'pond'. The trained ones did not even need the shadow to linked, hence the commands in the nations of the borderlands to have every street and corner be lit during the night. Walls were a lousy barrier for something as resourceful as lurks.

Really good shade dancers, really apt and experienced and strong myrddraal could even manage to re-appear in spots of mere twilight, he had been told once at the beginning of his training, but he had never seen one do so. There was only so much one could force the currents of the shade to do for one, and emerging half buried in a wall because the strain was too great and the shade too thin was not a goal most myrddraal aspired to achieve.

Zath Talaka was an average shade dancer, which, given that he was only a half blood, was still more than his handlers had hoped to achieve with their cruel grooming.

He was one with the shadow, faster, stronger, more aware than any true human would ever be. Zath ignored the oily sweetness for once, taking in all the myriads of impressions the shade threw at him. He could see the people clearly now, moving almost like through quicksand for his heightened senses, a faint red glow all around each of them. They were tall and broad-shouldered figures, armed with hammers, axes, daggers and other sorts of blades and clad in thick leather clothes and scorched leather aprons. He immediately recognized three of them as the blacksmith's assistants he had faced off in Ebrar Manef's forge.

They were looking for him now, having lost sight of him as soon as he merged with the darkness. Low voices were calling out to each other, searching eyes flickering form one side to another, expecting him to have hidden in the fields.

Zath emerged from the shadow directly in front of one, letting go off the oily sweetness with faint regret. The man's eyes widened like saucers before the half-myrddraal's daggers cut through his thick leather vest as if it was made of silk. The blades found heart and lungs, and the man died with a muffled cry. Before the corpse hit the muddy ground, the shadows had Zath again, and he raced towards the second target.

This time, he appeared right behind his victim, driving the point of his daggers between the bones of his spine, then yanking them free again in one fluent motion. The others were getting erratic by now, realizing that two of their group had just vanished, but Zath was not touched by that at all, the shade calling out to him again. A third man fell to his blades, and a fourth.

The others started to retreat and ran back to the edge of the woods, but he relentlessly tracked them down now. There was no mercy in the shadows. he threw one to the ground while his daggers cut open the ribcage of a second one, a big burly man carrying axe and sword.

The other one scrambled to his feet again, just enough for Zath to see his face. It was Ebrar Manef, and his face was a mask of fear.

"You!" both almost shouted simultaneously, him in panic, Zath in cold rage. The two blades flashed once more, and the corrupt blacksmith fell to the ground.

He felt the blow coming rather than really seeing it. Zath Talaka, half-myrddraal, was fast, especially once he embraced the shadows, but even his reactions had limits. The big, bald one with the droopy eyes had been holding a doubled-headed warhammer that easily must have weighed thirty pounds. All he could do was brace for the impact while trying to whirl himself out of its deadly path. But the moment passed, and no bone-smashing hammer stroke hit him.

Instead, a thin, almost surprised sounding wail filled the air around him. He turned to face the direction it came from and froze. The tall blacksmith's apprentice stood at the edge of his field of view, his hands trembling. The hammer lay at his feet, his head turned away from Zath's. And the wail rapidly grew more panicked, far more pain-filled, and far louder. Shriller it grew, and coarse, like a man with a dry throat yelling from the top of his lungs. Faint wisps of smoke were rising from his head and shoulders.

Slowly, as if their movements were linked together by hidden chains, both men turned to face each other. The attacker was shaking uncontrollably, his arms flapping like the wings of a fat, man-sized bird, his knees shaking yet still keeping him standing.

His head turned around to face Zath. His skin blistered.

Zath wanted to swallow, but the spit in his mouth had turned to ashes, and he took an involuntary step back. The man's head faced him evenly, staring, not moving, as if it was held steady by someone while the rest of the body was seized with convulsion. But where eyes and mouth should have been, firestorms raged, blue and red and white flames licking from empty eye sockets and from his throat, burning the soft flesh of the face away to a smouldering black ruin, blistering around the edges. Wisps of smoke rose from all over his body now.

The man kept screaming, with the roar of the fires making a mockery of him, until it was a sound on the edge of hearing, shrill and sharp in one's ears - and simply vanished. The flames died down as if they had never burnt in the blink of an eye, and the tall man slumped to the ground like a boneless piece of flesh. Only the foul smell of burnt flesh and the black ruins of the man's mouth and sockets remained. Zath let go of the embrace of the shadows and sheathed his daggers. There was no blood on them. Carefully he stepped over the body, and froze in his track again.

The old farmer stood in the doorway. It was impossible that he could see him in the darkness of the forest, but his eyes were fixed on him, and on the body. He was smiling.

Tarmion stood over the body of the corrupt blacksmith, his arms crossed before his chest, his forehead wrinkled in thought. He did not look at Azral who stood leaning against a tree just a few paces away. Caran Tureed was cackling triumphantly in his head, muffled, subdued as if he was waiting behind some door in his mind. Nobody spoke a word about what had happened, about what the old man had done. And maybe it was better that way, at least for now.

"Well, it all makes at least some kind of sense," he muttered to himself.

"What do you mean?" Marisa, standing close to him with disgust about the corpses and the bloodshed showing clearly on her face, wanted to know.

"I may not be of much use with a sword, or knowledgeable in all sorts of ancient crafts," Tarmion started slowly, each word taking deliberate effort to pass his lips," but I know politics, and how those that rule think." He spread his fingers in a defensive gesture. "I do not presume to know if that is really what has happened here, but hear me out, I beg you," he stated, as much to Zath as to Azral and Marisa. "People are afraid of the Dragon," he began. "But the people who rule over the people," he smiled regrettably at his own words, "know that, too. Katar has never been close to the King, and all those forces within the city have been busy playing their own game for quite some time now. I think, that is the way we have to look at what happened here: as just another move in a game, a 'saving throw', if you want so.

With that, the Guild was confronted with two moves which both undermined its standing and plans: Ebrar's continuous fraud, and our discovery thereof, and the diffusion of the mass panic about the Dragon in Altara.

"The Dragon's in Altara?" Marisa almost squeaked.

Tarmion continued as if he had not noticed her. And maybe he truly had not.

"So, the Guild Mistress took the only logical move left to her: to kill two birds with one stone. Use Ebrar to make sure we two pose no future obstacles, and hope the blacksmith dies while trying."

"But why?"

"The Dragon was a ploy by the Guild. There most likely never was one to begin with."

"Oh, light, nobody would ever do something like that!"

"Nobody would ever use a bogeyman dead for three thousand years to make money?" he snorted and gave her a level look. "Marisa, burn me, you are not that stupid." He turned to the rest of them. "The Guild would have made a fortune once the masses had been sufficiently riled up. Everybody would have flocked to their local blacksmith and armed himself, or at least bought himself tools to nail himself in into their houses. Soon thereafter, the city council would have been forced to follow suit, to levy forces and arm them, and to prepare the city for siege – not because they really believed it to be necessary, but because the smallfolk believed so. And each other guild would have suffered from the breakdown of commerce, leaving the blacksmiths' guild in a far more powerful position once the frenzy died down – and with their coffers full of gold, too."

"So we interrupted that plan," Zath had figured it out, "and to avoid further interruptions from us, we had to be dealt with."

Tarmion nodded.

"Yes, I believe so. Ebar was just a pawn in that game."

He paused for a moment, his eyes wandering over the bodies, the fields, the farmstead and the three people besides him, and he sighed. Things had just become a lot more complex.

"We have to go. All of us."

"You can go where ever you want, and take the bad luck with you that you brought here!" Marisa shot back at him. "Once you are gone, the trouble will also be gone. We can take care of ourselves, we always have."

"No, you can't."

Everybody turned to Tarmion. He sat cross-legged on the floor and was honing his sword with even strokes with an oiled cloth. Only when everybody stared at him did he look up, and faced Marisa. "You can't, and you know it," he gave her a sad smile. "That's why you are so angry." With a start he rose and sheathed his sword, making sure not to touch the well-oiled blade.

Despite himself, Zath had to smile beneath the mask. Like that, his friend was a lot closer to being his old self again.

"We will not leave our home just because you said so. It's you who have brought death here. Go, and it will follow you and leave us alone!"

"This will not end here, Marisa," Tarmion cut her off flatly. "You can stay, or you both can come with us. But if you stay, you will die. The Guild will make sure none of this reaches too curious ears, and tongues that are cut out cannot speak. They will follow the trail, unless we make it end here."

He turned to Zath. His eyes were still empty, but no longer devoid of any life.

"Help me with the bodies. I have an idea."

They left the farm the next morning, leaving only smoke and fire behind. Zath and Tarmion had dumped the bodies in the farmhouse and the barn then had laden the carts Azral and Marisa owned with what was valuable and necessary and had tied the cows and pigs of the farm together so that they could be kept together with rope on the road. Chickens clucked in brushwood cages on the second, ox-drawn cart.

Behind them, Azral's farmstead slowly vanished in the woods, flames licking at the barn and the house's dry wood and hay.

A new chapter had started here. Now, they were four.

They rode into the sunrise, Azral absent-mindedly whistling a merry tune. In Tarmion's head, Caran Tureed gleefully whistled it with him.


	9. Not Quite the Travelling People

**Chapter 9**

**Not Quite the Travelling People**

Marisa still only talked the bare and necessary minimum with them and shot them angry and hateful glances whenever she thought one of them was looking into her general direction. He did not really blame her, not after what they had brought down on her family and her home. She had every right to be angry, even though it did not help her or change anything one single bit. In a way, Tarmion admired her determination

That Azral, her father, had come and agree with their plan so willingly, yes, excitedly almost, had not helped her mood in the slightest, and ever since they had embarked on their journey three weeks ago, her mood had become gradually worse.

Their way had them lead down the road: first south, then west, then south again, following the old trading route at the edge of Paerish Swar, the Darkwood. There were fewer villages here than closer to Katar, and fewer outlying farmsteads still, but they had never travelled more than a few hours without meeting another human or finding clear evidence of human civilization.

The people had also started to change slowly. Closer to the south and the mountains, the dark hair and colourful clothes dominant in Arad Doman and Katar slowly made way for folk of taller build and fairer hair that seemed to prefer earthen and dark green colours for their woollen clothes. Placed along the old road like pearls on a chain, those people and their villages were part of no kingdom and subject only to their own leaders. Only the villages' names still hinted at their past, and the places the buildings had been erected at along the road defied any notion of randomness.

Since they had left Azral's farm, they had gone through Highwatch, Drommen's Fastness, Deepsquare, Even's Guard and half a dozen other villages with similar names. Build on hills overlooking the nearby countryside and the road at their feet, all those villages hid behind earthen walls and palisades. In the centre of each of those settlements, a towerhouse made from massive blocks of stone from the mountains sat, often serving as a tavern, a storehouse and a meeting place for the village elders all in one. None of those houses still looked the same. With some, the upper floors had been gradually torn down to use the rock as building material for other houses. Others had broken larger windows into the walls of the lower floors and turned the flat platforms on the towers' tops into high-peaked thatched roofs. But the basic designs were all still the same, if one cared to notice such things.

Tarmion had always been a man who was interested in wars and fortifications and history in general (which came as one, as history was usually a history of wars). What now were villages had once been guard posts, garrisoned and built to overlook and secure a vital trading road. But the garrisons had long vanished, redeployed or merged with the population that had settled around the safe tower houses with time, and the nations that once deployed those troops had also faded back into the mists of time. After the first two villages, Tarmion had started to make notes about their journey.

Nowadays, most goods and people travelled around the Almoth Plain, around Toman Head on ships crossing the Aryth Ocean along the shores. As such, trade was welcome extra source of income and wealth for those remaining along the old road, and strangers and travellers were met with curiosity instead of hostility.

They had found shelter and meat and mead every night, and fires to warm themselves and sleep around. It had been rather easy to turn all the animals they had not want to leave at Azral's farm into good coin. There had always been farmers who could use just one more cow or two more pigs, and the one they had sold their two oxen to just happened to have two huge cold bloods too many he gave them in exchange. In two of the villages they had travelled through, spontaneous marriages had happened within the day. In another one, a long series of thievings had come to an end when during the evening in the village inn a member of the village council had confessed them under tears completely unexpected. At Deepsquare, a woman found her husband on the attic, hanging from a beam with a rope around his neck. And at Even's Guard three pregnant women gave birth to twins almost simultaneously.

And while all these incidents only reinforced Marisa's bad mood and her feeling that something was wrong and that Tarmion and Zath were responsible for it, Tarmion himself also had his own ideas about what was going on.

Strongquarry was a village much like the others the travelling party had passed through during the last weeks. Built against the foothills of the mountains, a steep slope full of boulders and high, open rocks in which deep crevices cut rose to the village's east, giving the settlement its name. The Old Road was widely used here by the farmers and inhabitants of Strongquarry, and was framed on both sides low walls made from crude rocks. Lush meadows and fields on which crops grew, still green but already high, and lines if apple, pear and plum trees where also framed by the same low walls and elderberry hedgerows.

The people they met on the road greeted them curtly, but friendly, and fell in to talk with them easy enough. There were no outlying farms around Strongquarry. The farmer who had fallen in besides them, Errand Halfoak, had grown up on such a farm, but nowadays nobody lived outside the village boundaries any more.

"There's no point to it, you see," he explained while pulling a cow on a rope behind him. The animal trotted indifferently after him, ruminating its food. "Too many wolves and bears during the winter season, and you have to do it all by yourself. I was to last to leave a farm, almost broke me heart," he muttered. "Buried me wife there, too, the Creator may shelter her."

It was half a mile from the Old Road up to the village. Like most other settlements they had seen, Strongquarry was fortified to some degree, with an almost overgrown ditch with black tarred wooden spikes and a three paces high earthen wall constituting the village's defence. The grass was high and green on that wall, and sheep and some cows were grazing on it.

Errand Halfoak meanwhile kept talking, obviously being glad to have found someone who listened to his words.

"Well, after all that I've moved in with my boy's family. Good people, good kids. It's good to have them all around me. Not just the kids, you see, all the other people, too. Nothing like having a mug of ale in _Stony Boar_ when the cold wind's blowing outside. Good people," he repeated as much for himself as for them, "good people."

Their arrival drew quite a crowd. The midday hours had just passed, and most people were on their way to return to their chores when the two carts and their passengers stopped in the middle of the village ground. Women with their aprons still dirty from cooking meals and cleaning plates, laughing children and men with tools over their shoulders and curiosity written on their faces soon surrounded them and filled the air with questions.

Tarmion decided to opt out of the commotion.

"I'll go and see that we have beds for the night," he leaned over to Azral and laid a hand on the man's arm.

"You do that, boy," the old farmer answered with a warm smile and turned to the villagers.

Zath nodded curtly and otherwise concentrated on the people around him, ever so vigilant. Marisa noticed what he wanted to do. For an instant it seemed she was pondering what to say to him, yet then she scowled, turned her head away and sniffed.

Tarmion frowned but made himself a path through the bystanders with some friendly words. He just could not figure that woman out. No matter what he did, it seemed to be wrong and stirred her wrath. And blood and ashes, she could throw tantrums!

The inn, the _Stony Boar_ Errand Halfoak had called it, stood taller than the majority of the half-timbered houses of Strongquarry. Two stories high of solid stonemasonry, made from almost seamless mountain rocks, crowned by a high-pitched thatched roof, the _Boar_ had bright green door- and window frames and rested in the shadows of four tall oaks that grew close to it, two on each side.

The innkeeper stood beneath the door frame and cleaned a mug with a dishcloth. He was a little bit smaller than Tarmion, but with greater girth, and his head was a mass of close-cropped grey curls. The man's face bore a wide smile framed by a bushy grey beard.

"Welcome, traveller," he motioned Tarmion inside and followed him to the bar. "Food for your stomachs, a good mug of ale for your spirits, warm rooms for the night, what shall it be?" he inquired with the voice of someone who had been pulled from a boring routine and was happy to see something new.

At the mention of food Tarmion felt his stomach rumble. A hot meal would be a fine thing, he had to agree.

"Meals for four, and rooms for us at night."

"Splendid! Gella, we have customers!" he shouted over his shoulders. "So, it will be a room for the other two, and one for you and your lady?"

Tarmion thanked the Creator that Marisa had stayed outside. 'His lady?' The thought was too strange to even consider it for more than a second. 'His lady' most likely would have scratched his eyes out if he even dared proposing to share the same room with her.

"Oh, stop being such a fool, Mellen!" a stout, grey-haired woman wearing a spotted apron came marching swiftly into the common room on short legs, flashing a wide smile. She turned to Tarmion and implied a slight bow with. "My apologies, from me and that wool-headed man here who happens to be my husband. I am Gella, and this good-hearted oaf is Mellen," she nudged the balding man in the side with a mischievous grin. "We get so few travellers to Strongquarry these days, to him everybody is a lord, and pardon me talking so frankly, you do not look like one."

"No offence taken, good woman, neither from you nor from your husband. But then I've never heard from someone taking offence at being mistaken for a lord," he chuckled. "My name is Tarmion Genda," he introduced himself. "The man looking after the horses is my good friend Zath Talaka, and the couple on the cart are Azral Tane and his daughter Marisa."

"Pardon our curiosity, master Genda, but as my wife mentioned," he shot the smaller woman a frowning glance, "there aren't many people using the Old Road these days." He took an earthenware pitcher from a shelf behind him and poured Tarmion a mug full of apple cider. "What brings you and your friends to these farthings?"

Tarmion considered his answer for a few moments while he took a deep gulp from the mug. The cider was sweet and sparkling and ran down his throat like warm honey. The smell of roasted meat and stew and fresh baked bread entered the common room from the kitchen and his stomach loudly reminded him that he had not had a hot meal for two days.

"Oh, I am really starting to loose my manners," the woman muttered with a blush and turned back to where she had come from. "I'll have lunch served right away, Master Genda. I can live with being called many a thing, but nobody shall ever have a right to claim he did not get enough to eat under my roof."

Mellen watched her with an expression that clearly took offence at the notion of 'her roof', but it was the kind of amused offence long married coupled seemed to be so fond of dashing out against each other.

When Tarmion sat the mug down again, the innkeeper's eyes rested on him once more.

"Well, what can I say? We're on the way to Ghealdan. Marisa and her father gave up their farm, a day's ride from Katar. Burnt down in a thunderstorm not long ago," he frowned to mask the lie. "I guess we stayed together for, well, I don't really know why. I guess we all came to the conclusion that it's safer to travel together."

The innkeeper's wife, Gella, came back from the kitchen carrying a huge tray laden with dishes full of vegetables and meat in a thick brown sauce.

"Is your friend ill?" Gella suspiciously looked out of the windows and eyed the cart Azral was still sitting on. "I can let Enija look after him. She's good with herbs and potions," she offered him.

Tarmion shook his head and sighed.

"I doubt there's anything your herbal woman can do for old Azral. He's never really gotten over the sudden death of his wife a couple of years ago. Or so Marisa told me." Tarmion shrugged when the innkeeper and his wife gave him questioning looks. "He has good days, and then he has bad days when one cannot get through to him at all, but no, he is not _sick_." Well, apart from the fact that he was a man who could channel the One Power, a voice in his mind added with dry sarcasm. "It's more like daydreaming."

Tarmion's eyes fell on a man who was sleeping halfway on a table in the corner of the common room, a toppled mug resting besides his hands while a thin strand of drool ran down from his half-open mouth onto the table. A soft snore filtered down to him now after he had accustomed to the inside of the inn.

"Who's that, Master Ollon?"

The aging innkeeper winced at being reminded of the sleeping guest and sighed after an instant.

"Well, he came here two weeks ago, from Tarabon, he says. Don't know much about him, though. Keeps mostly to himself, or sleeps, and when he does _not_ sleep, he gulps down ale and cider like he was dying of thirst," Mellen shook his head sceptically. "His name's Aryman." He leaned closer to Tarmion. "If you ask me, Master Genda, this one's doing his best to drink himself to death," he sighed gravely. "Several times now I have thought about stopping to serve him, but he has good coin, for now, and I am grateful for all I can get these days." Mellen picked up a piece of cloth and started cleaning the counter. "Still, I feel not good doing so. He already sold his horse for money to spend of alcohol, and three days ago he wanted to sell a heron-mark blade to Bryce, the blacksmith! Light, burn me, a heron-mark blade, master Genda! Who would give something like that away?" Not expecting an answer, Mellen grabbed the pitcher once more and refilled Tarmion's mug.

Tarmion studied the sleeping man with new curiosity, then took the mug up with one hand and started to rub his eye with the other. Thoughts were racing behind his forehead. '_Ta'veren_', he thought, and not for the first time during the past weeks. It was strange to see so much of his past slowly slip into an unclear twilight while many other things remained as easily accessible to him as if he was holding them in his hands, written clearly on a piece of paper.

"I'll place your meals on this table," Gella pronounced and carried the tray over to a large table by the fireplace.

"Thank you, mistress. Excuse me, but I'll better help the others, or they'll start to think of me as some lord like your good husband just did." He nodded politely and stepped outside again.

Zath had already handed their horses over to the inn's stablehand, an aging, broad-shouldered man with a shoulder-long mane of grey hair going by the name of Samel Corin. Marisa was busy hauling some of their more mobile baggage off the cart while Azral had gone off into the village. Tarmion just hoped the old man would stay out of trouble. Travelling with a male channeller most likely was no better to most people than being a darkfriend was: at most places, it would get you killed in very painful ways.

He stepped on the cart with one foot and pushed him up half a pace to take a look around the village. Built on a slope descending westwards, Strongquarry was edged between fields and meadows divided by hedges and dirt packed roads to its north and south. In the west, fields and a road winding downwards went as far down as the old road and gradually vanished there, changing into fruit trees and finally, thick underbrush and tall oaks. A thick hedge and a cordon of sharpened stakes surrounded the village in a long-drawn oval. Leaving only one opening it it before which a cart could be pushed when Strongquarry was in danger.

But what really drew his eyes in lay to the village's east. Huge boulders and grey stone in all forms and sizes covered the hill side, only sparse grass and crippled bushes growing through the solid cover. Half a mile away, the slopes of the high hills abruptly steepened and ended in a massive cliff of grey mountain stone.

"Ah, you're not the first to worry about that boulder hill," a hoarse voice appeared right behind him and a man in dark green clothes and brown leather trousers stepped besides him. He was balding, maybe in his early forties, and had bound his thinning grey hair into a pigtail. A long knife hung sheathed on a broad leather belt, and he was shouldering a bow lacking a bow-string.

"Ever since the hillside came rumbling down like the end of days had come when I still was a child I wondered when all those boulders will come raining down on Strongquarry," he turned to face Tarmion. "Yurion Stormcrow is my name. I assume people might call me the village's forrester, if there ever was such a position. Not that I get paid for it, though," he added sourly.

Tarmion introduced himself and shook the older man's hand. It was gaunt and wiry, but with strong muscles laying underneath the weathered skin.

"So that hillside came down when you were a youngster?" Tarmion asked, turning back unloading the cart, the voice sounding pressed as he shouldered a chest and took a bundle of clothes in the other hand.

"Staying at the inn, eh? Well, good for Mellen and Gella to have a few new faces under their roof, except that southern drunkard," he spat out, leaving no doubt as to what he thought of Aryman. "Let me help you with that," he grabbed one handle of the chest. "Going to get some hot cider anyway."

The two started walking towards the inn again.

"Well, were was I? Ah, yes, the landslide," he shook his head thoughtfully. "Bad thing, that. Couple of farmers and lots of cattle got killed back then, and we lost a third of the harvest. My father, may the Light shelter him, had warned the village of that long before." They pushed through the door, and the hunter motioned Mellen for a mug of hot cider. "Well, as the name probably gives away, there was once a quarry for mountain stone above the village. Most of the stones here and in the other villages comes from here. But some time ago, people stopped taking stones from there," he shrugged as they both manoeuvred the chest onto the stairs, and Yurion started to push.

"Well, thirty years ago the old quarry broke loose and half the mountain side came down with it. A good thunderstorm, and the rest will come down, too, and the Light help us then."

Mellen placed a steaming mug on the bar and snorted audibly.

"What old Yurion here tries to tell you is that ever since he's become member of the village council no meeting passes without him fretting over the danger of being buried by the mountain."

The hunter turned his head and frowned at the innkeeper.

"Yes, and every time you and that burly oaf Lockmingler yell me down. You saw what happened back then as well as I did!"

"Yes, I did, Yurion. But we've been through this a thousand times. What do you expect me to do? I cannot move the mountain, as little as I can move the village! You really are a merchant of doom."

"Mark my words, Mellen: when that mountain side comes crashing down, the whole village will grievously suffer."

"Maybe so, Yurion," the innkeeper sighed heavily, clearly having had this conversation for more than once. "But, the Light willing, we will pull through."

"And if the Light doesn't will, we'll still pull through," Yurion added wryly, heaving the chest over the last step.

"There you are, Master Genda."

"Thank you, Yurion. Why don't you join us at our table?"

The older man shrugged.

"Well, I would certainly cherish some company. Listening to old Mellen's blather all the time will make your ears bleed after a while."

"As if your hunter's stories where any better," the innkeeper growled gruffly, but with a sparkle in his eyes.

Well, they were entertaining, that much Tarmion had to concede while he and the others listened to Yurion while they were eating their meals. Gella and the serving girl, her daughter, kept moving in and out of the kitchen with plates full of roast meat in thick gravy, buttered potatoes and baked beans, scrambled eggs with baked bacon and onions and loaves of fresh bread with soft butter. They had not eaten that good in weeks, and when they were done they all slumped back against their seats, full but content.

Some other villagers had joined them for the time, but had let the inn again soon after they had finished, having chores to attend and fields and crops to look after. The Taraboner had snored through all of it without waking once. Still, Zath hardly took his eyes off the man, or rather, his blade. A blademaster, here? _Ta'veren!_

But the man remained asleep, as long as they were in the common room. When they were finished and went back outside to look after their belongings, the curiosity of the villagers had died down. They spent the rest of the day looking after the horses and the wagons.

When the evening hours were drawing closer, dark clouds started to form on the horizon.

"Summer thunderstorm," Mellen commented, stepping besides Tarmion as he stood beneath the door frame and watched the sky. "Quite typical for this time of the year. Just close the shutters on your rooms' windows and you'll sleep like as deep as an infant, Master Genda."

With a storm drawing closer, the inn's common room remained almost empty that evening. Everyone was out in the fields to bring the cattle home, or was doing his best to make his home ready to withstand the pouring rain and howling winds. Mellen, Gella and her helping hnds were doing their own best to make the _Stony Boar_ ready to weather the storm.

The Taraboner had woken up once it had become dark outside, with thick grey, almost black clouds blocking out the red, early evening sun. Tarmion was not even certain wether the man had realized they were there, but Zath had watched him like a fellow predator who had transgressed into another's hunting grounds. Still, nothing had happened, and the Taraboner had simply gone to his room from which soon thereafter his snoring continued.

The innkeeper's daughter had provided them with bowls of stew and bread from earlier this day with a plate of sliced bacon, onions, pickles and hard cheese. The stew was strongly peppered and made their throats burn, but did not diminish their good mood. In fact, seeing the usually so stoic Zath cough and grasp for water was amusing to all of them in good fun. Azral was talking and laughing, his eyes crystal clear. The old farmer was telling jokes left and right and was enjoying himself and their company, and his good mood even seemed to infect Marisa. She did not talk with Tarmion or Zath any more than necessary, but it was obvious she was happy that her father was living up once more. Later, Mellen and his family joined in with them, and they sat around the cracking fireplace in the common room, talking until it was almost midnight and they decided to get some sleep.

He awoke to the sound if cracking thunder. Nightmares had haunted him for the short time he had been asleep, bad dreams were he had blood on his hands, where he could see the small boy crying, where Caraan Tureed was whispering murder in his ears. There was no way to discern dream and reality in that regard. He could still feel the mind of the mad channeller rage and whisper and beg in that far away corner of his mind where he had managed to ban him for most the time.

There was something in the air that made him fully awake in a matter of moments, something that made his stomach crawl and his hairs stir. He looked over to Zath's bed, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Whatever he was feeling, the halfman was not affected by it. Soft snores rose from beneath the linen blankets. Carefully, Tarmion slipped from the bed and into his clothes, dimly aware of the fact that the rain and storm outside were so loud he could have tripped over a chair and fallen without anybody likely noticing it.

Slowly, he opened the door and peeked into the darkness. Outside the room, the rain and storm seemed a lot louder to him than before. The door to Azral's and Marisa's room stood open, but only about an inch wide. He stopped and concentrated his hearing, not daring to open the door any further. Blood and ashes, there would be hell to pay if Marisa caught him staring at her in her sleep. If she had been unbearable so far, 'hostile' would no longer over the feeling she harboured against them after that.

After a few moments, his ears had adapted enough to the noise that he could make out the sounds coming from the inside. They were what one would have expected from sleeping people. Whatever had woken him up had nothing to do with that room, a thought that relieved him more than he truly could fathom right there. Frowning anew, he continued to sneak through the hallway.

The sounds of the storm were getting louder with every careful step he took, and after he passed around a corner he could see why. A window stood open. The storm outside pushed the inside, producing darker spots against the white walls in the sharp light the lightning threw and a growing puddle on the floor. The whispers were getting stronger now, audible enough for him to believe he could almost hear the dreaded voice of Caran Tureed, chuckling, sending shivers down his spine.

With a start, he made half a dozen decisive steps forward towards the window to pull the shutters close. He froze in his movements.

A figure was standing on the lower roof in the pouring rain, its shape only visible when lightning struck through the thick clouds. He wanted to call out to it, but instead his feet carried him through the door frame and onto the roof itself. The wind bit at him. He had left his cloak by his bed, and within a minute he was soaking wet. It seemed heaven had opened its floodgates, and he and the other person where at the centre of it. The shape in the darkness was shaking.

Lightning struck, and Tarmion caught a glimpse of the other one. It was Azral. Through the darkness and the rain Tarmion could not make out whether the old man was laughing or crying. Maybe he did both.

Tarmion could feel the current in the air, causing the hair on his arms to stand up despite the pouring rain. Inside his head, a man three thousand years dead was chuckling. Tarmion licked his lips. Why were they suddenly so dry? Was he not standing in the pouring rain?

"Damn it, old man, get into the house," he called more hesitantly and less forceful than he had intended to. "Azral, blood and ashes, you will catch your death there!"

White lightning struck the mountain like a spear from heaven. A boulder, easily as big as a cow, was catapulted from the mountainside and into the air in a high arch. Fascinated and terrified alike, Tarmion's eyes were liked glued to the rock's fall. It crashed into the slope above the village with a crack as loud as the loudest thunder. For the brink of a moment it seemed as if it would remain there, but with an eerie, almost calculating slowness it toppled over and began its increasingly fast tumble towards the village below, pulling smaller pieces of rubble and rock with it downwards.

More lightning struck the mountain, twice, three times, five times, a dozen times. The cacophony broke the spell that had held him, and his eyes widened in horrified realization.

"Light, old man, what are you doing!" he yelled, leaping forward to pull Azral back. The old farmer looked at him with glazed eyes. At least the lightnings had stopped, but his gut told him it was not enough. The damage had already been done.

The first boulder had now reached the end of the slope, rushing down a lot faster than any man could run. The oxen-sized rock bounced, crashed through a thatched roof and spent the rest of its energy crashing and rolling through the inside of the barn. Animals shrieked in horror and pain, soon to be accompanied by the voices of humans, full of shock and terror. Hundreds of feet above, the mountainside was moaning.

Tarmion slapped Azral, and the older man's eyes cleared, as if he had just woken up from a trance.

"What have you done, old fool? What. Have. You. Done!"

He pushed him back through the window, back inside. Fear was apparent on both their faces.

"Light, help me!" he moaned.

"It won't!" Tarmion snapped. "Wake the others. Wake everybody!" he added more urgently.

The old farmer stumbled back to their rooms, waking them all from their sleep. Tarmion slammed into the innkeeper's bed chambers, pulling the couple from their sleep. He staved off the man's protest with a wink of his hand.

"The mountain's coming down!" he snapped. "Get up, take what you can, and run for the Old Road," he commanded, sounding a lot more certain than he felt. He could see Mellen and his wife stiffen in resistance. He jumped over to their bedroom window and opened the shutters. Lightning was striking outside regularly now, and he pulled the man to the window, pointing at the destroyed barn.

"It's already started, blood and ashes! Get your family _out_!"

Running from the room back to his own, he did not wait to see whether Mellen and Gella and her daughter obeyed him. The mountain was coming down, he was sure of it. Every second counted.

Marisa was standing in the hallway, confused, but with her belongings clutched against her chest. Zath already waited in front of their door. He threw Tarmion his sword and cloak and was gone already, running down towards the stables, the heavy saddlebags and the bundle with their clothes strapped on his back. Tarmion pulled Marisa with him. Wether it was because she was afraid or confused, she did not protest. Azral followed her, a big bundle strapped to his back. The old man was crying. Tarmion felt sorry for the farmer, but there was no time to comfort him.

The four of them stormed into the stables and drew the horses and carts outside. What usually took them minutes now was done in a quarter of that time. Adrenalin and fear pushed them ahead.

Samel Corin was dumbfounded until a rock the size of a cart slammed into a house on the other side of the village, illuminated by lightning, and made it go up in flames despite the rain. The old stablehand stormed outside and stumbled to the old bellhouse besides the well. With surprising strength he crashed through the door, and the bell inside began to ring frantically.

People stormed out their houses now, drowsy faces looking for explanations. Mellen rushed past Azral's cart while Gella and her daughter jumped on it. Both wore thick cloaks and small bags, but beneath that they had only the most necessary clothes on their bodies. The innkeeper stopped in the middle of the village grounds.

"The mountain's coming down!" he yelled. "Take what you can grab and run!"

People shrieked in panic, and animals howled within their barns. They could smell the danger.

Zath drove his cart outside the village, as did Azral. Tarmion rode behind them. Others saw them go and started to run, some to open the doors of their barns, others following them outside, again others started to pull their own wagons outside. Tarmion stopped to drive them on.

"Faster! The Forsaken shall take you, _faster_!"

He jumped from the saddle and gave his mount a slap, driving the horse outside the village boundaries to help some villagers with an unruly oxen which had stopped the cart. Others passed them by, running, pulling crying children with them, bundles with everything they had the chance to grab on their backs. Shrieking horses, cows and sheep and a squealing horde of pigs raced through the gap in Strongquarry's defences, followed by a couple of wagons full of frightened villagers.

And suddenly, there was a sound like ice cracking on a frozen winter lake. Bone-chilling, it drowned the cries of the villagers, the hammering raindrops and the thunder raging in the clouds above. For a moment, it was as if any other sound had ceased to exist. Then, a low grumble arose, like the tide rolling in.

"Run!" he cried from the top of his lungs. "Blood and ashes, _run_, people!

The light of a new day made the destruction seem to be more complete than before. Mist still clung to the ground around Strongquarry like a shroud, and grey clouds raced past above, being pushed towards the mountains by a strong wind coming from the Aryth Ocean. Still, one did not need bright sunlight to recognize the amount of devastation that had been brought on the village. It was complete. Here and there wooden beams still pierced through the grey mass of rocks that covered everything, but of Strongquarry itself there was no longer any hint. It was it if it had been wiped out from the pattern itself.

The mountain to the east looked like a pockmarked face, full of gashes where lightning had struck. Along half a mile the solid rock had cracked and rolled downhill in a roaring avalanche, thousands and thousands of tons of stone sliding downwards after the first large boulders had smashed into the houses of the unsuspecting village folk. To both sides of the village the fields lay buried, and with them, almost a hundred people.

Mellen looked over the carnage with doubtful eyes.

"Light, it will take all our strength to rebuild that," he stated finally, but it sounded weak.

"Oh, don't kid yourself there," Yurion muttered gloomily. "Do you still remember how many children there were when we were young, and how few there are today? And compared to our grandfathers' times, even we were fewer than they. Fifteen years ago the last of the outer farmsteads was abandoned. There were many before that, and you bloody well know that. There must have been twenty or more by the time of our grandfathers' fathers. This village is dying, Mellen, very slowly, but no less definitely."

"So what do you suppose me to do?" he snapped at him. "Lay down here and wait till the wolves eat our remains? This is our home, old fool!"

"But there is no bloody home left, Mellen! Light! The village's gone, and so's most of the harvest. We were lucky we got out, but all that's left here are ruins and our dead," Stormcrow seemed to slump down with these words. He suddenly looked old and very tired. "And we most likely can't go to the other villages either. Highwatch and Deepsquare don't have the food to feed so many mouths," he sighed.

"We should see what we can rescue from the ruins," Mellen said stoically, and Yurion sighed and nodded.

Tarmion turned away from the conversation and walked back to the spot where Zath, Marisa and her father had made camp with their wagons. Azral had been crying for most the day and refused to eat, despite his daughter's kindest care. Zath was looking through their belongings.

"We were lucky this time," he said calmly, but the events of the night had taken their toll on him as well. His voice was tired, and every movement seemed forced to Tarmion. "Others were less lucky."

Marisa looked up from her father and stormed over to them.

"And now?" she fumed. "What plans do you have now? Have you any idea how to keep those people alive?"

"As a matter of fact...yes, I have."

He left her standing there, staring with her mouth open, and went back to the fireplace where the remaining village council had settled down. The next morning, their trek started its way down the road, towards the south.

Yurion, Azral, Zath and Tarmion took the lead on their own horses.

"Burn me, we look like the travelling folk," Yurion muttered while looking back over his shoulder where two dozen horse- and ox-drawn carts and just as many riders on their own horses followed them down the road.

"Close enough," Tarmion smiled wolfishly and patted the hilt of his sword which hung at the flank of his mount, well sheathed and ready to draw. "But not quite the travelling people after all."


	10. The Lie That Tumbles Walls

**Chapter 10**

**The Lie That Tumbles Walls**

People are the strangest of all animals. One moment, they panic and hang their heads in despair, ready to lie down and die, mourn their dead and claim never to be able to recover from what harsh events have thrown them off course. And yet, after a few encouraging words, a pat on the back and the depiction of the imaginary silver lining on the horizon, they swipe away their tears, shrug their shoulders and urge each other to action.

"Work don't do itself!" they say, and "Don't do tomorrow what you can do today!"

It was largely this mindset that has assured mankind its survival despite the _Breaking of the World_ and all the disasters that had followed in the three millennia since. People would mourn their losses, remember them, but ultimately move on.

With Strongquarry, it had been no different.

The first day, search parties had dug for survivors beneath rock and rubble while others had gone through the ruins to scavenge whatever could be salvaged. Back in the camp at the Old Road, the wounded had been treated, wagons been repaired, meals been cooked and even laundry been washed.

The second day, the dead had been buried. Family members and the village council had spoken some prayers, but once the rain had started falling again, people had accepted that what corpses they had found were dumped into a long ditch and buried there. Almost every family had lost someone, and some families had forever been wiped out by the forces of nature itself.

On the third day, they started moving south. On horseback, it would have been a week's ride to the borders of Ghealdan, but their wagons and all the life stock they were carrying and pulling along made their trek a lot slower. Each day, they drove and rode from the early morning hours until an hour before nightfall when they made camp besides the Old Road. Yurion started taking other villagers with him when he went hunting and scouting, trying to teach them. The food they brought home was a welcome addition around the fireplaces where the people had to make due with what they had been able to salvage from the ruins of their houses.

Some days later, the women joined the men in their efforts to search food and started gathering herbs and roots and berries and wild fruits. The hides the men around Yurion Stormcrow brought back with them were cleaned and hung up to dry, the sounds of axes chopping firewood, saws and hammers hung over the fireplaces, and after the first few solemn days, music and laughter found their way back into the nightly camp sites. Still, the people they had to bury during their voyage reminded them of the past. Some had been to grievously wounded to make it, others had caught fevers from infections. Seven had died so far, but it seemed with them the worst was behind them. What remained where those with the less severe injuries.

They also lost people every time they came to a village. The settlements to Strongquarry's south were all a good deal smaller than the ruined village, and their inhabitants watched their trek with suspicion. Nonetheless, one or two or three people would always know someone there, a relative or old friend who would vouch for them, and they would stay there. Tarmion could see the longing in the other people's eyes when they once again left a village, but also the stubborn desire to make the best of their situation.

The village council met every evening, and Tarmion and Zath took part in their meetings. It had been his idea to lead the people to Ghealdan, but there was little advice he could give those men and women about how to run their camp. Like all of them, he rode and worked from dawn till nightfall and woke with the first rays of the sun with aching muscles and bones. The idea that had grown in his mind was not one to be proposed in front of the council, not like this, not yet. Still, each day he would stride through the camp, talk with the people at their fireplaces, chat with the craftsmen while he helped them and mention parts of his ideas among the others when he was chopping firewood with them.

Armies with colourful banners, a village on wheels, catapults and sieges, gold and battle, ideas like his needed time take root and grow, time and distance. He hoped that with every mile they put between Strongquarry and themselves they would become more open towards what he was talking about. In a strange way, Azral had presented him with an opportunity he found hard not to grasp.

Concerning the old farmer, he still felt miserable and hardly talked. When he did so, he did it only with his daughter. The only good thing the harsh daily routine did was provide him with an excuse not to be around the ginger – and hotheaded – woman. What little calm she had gathered had been blown away by the destruction wrought at Strongquarry, for which, of course, _he_ was responsible, not her lightning-throwing father.

As for the other stranger, the sword master seemed to only have been mildly inconvenienced by the destruction of Strongquarry in his quest of self-destruction.

He got drunk whenever he could, suffered cruelly from the withdrawal when he could not, and more often than not slept in his own vomit. By now, his smell preceded him, and people avoided the ashen man. Why the man even stayed with them was a mystery to him. Probably had no other place to go to, which again made his problems appear a lot like theirs.

All in all, it took them twenty days and nights to reach village that separated the Kingdom of Ghealdan from the unclaimed wilderness to its west.

Crickhollowe was a hamlet that once must have been a lot larger than the thirty houses it now consisted of. The remains of a circular earthen wall twice the range between the houses that were the farthest apart still surrounded Crickhollowe, about a span in height and overgrown with grass and elderberry bushes. The village folk watched their wagon train with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Mostly curiosity, though.

Crickhollowe's village elder and mayor - positions which seemed to be inseparable in this part of the land - was a gaunt and almost completely bald fellow named Elmer Moleshunt. Reluctant to welcome them until Zath had held a silver coin the size of his palm under his nose he allowed them to camp within the boundaries of Crickhollowe. The villagers quickly were at their sides when they had settled down for the moment, and two parties eager and willing to share news and gossip soon had found each other. Not long thereafter, the trading and bartering began. Bryce Kemnon, Strongquarry's former blacksmith, went to see his counterpart, who soon became the meeting place for those willing and able to do business. The people needed tools and iron, and steel heads for their spears and arrows.

After long days on the road, it felt good to meet other people again, and the atmosphere spread throughout the village. Even Marisa seemed to be happy, even though she did her best to scowl at him whenever he was near her. Azral had calmed down since they had started their voyage, but tried to remain for himself.

That evening, Tarmion finally had enough men together to start his endeavour.

They set out for the nearby forest before dawn, a band of thirty men and boys as young as fifteen and as old as sixty, laden with tools and provisions. They did not exactly creep away, but they made an effort not to wake the others until they had passed the limits of the village and were marching across the open field, at which point some of the men began to sing, and after a while he found himself singing with them.

They did not take long to reach the edge of the forest, a grey and green mass of tall beech trees and oaks behind which a labyrinth unfolded for miles and miles to come. Tree stumps all around them were a clear sign that the people of Crickhollowe also used the place for firewood and lumber.

With a queasy feeling Tarmion noticed that everybody had gathered around him and was watching him with expectant eyes. He could feel the cold sweat on his back and on his hands. If there was one thing he had usually never been good at, it had been speaking to larger crowds, especially crowds who were very closely watching him. Well, there had been that one time in Katar, a reassuring voice in his head reminded him, but even that made him tense up, fearing it could have been Caraan Tureed.

Stuttering, he gave himself a start. There was much work to do.

He had no hand for the actual work that needed to be done - cutting wood in the right angles, leaving the correct notches for the different parts to be stuck against each other, trimming the beams so that they were all symmetrical - but he helped where ever he could lend a hand. Still, more than his muscles his advice was demanded more often than not. The men had accepted him as their leader - it had been his idea, and he had drawn them in with his enthusiasm. That was why they trusted him, trusted his judgement, and Tarmion was ready to do whatever he could to justify their trust.

It was as if a fever was burning in him. He jumped from the men that built the frame to those who were working on iron angles, talked to those that were grappling with the construction of the counter-weight, encouraged the group that was lacking behind with the pivot arm. He had none but the most theoretic knowledge in most cases, but he watched the men, listened to their problems and ideas, and when he left their midst again, everybody returned to work with new ideas, new enthusiasm and new courage.

Zath sometimes nodded quietly to him when nobody else was watching.

By the time the early afternoon hours had passed they had built the frame according to his vague instructions, added the swing and a fixed counterweight and put it all into position with long ropes.

"Time to get them going again," Zath nudged him. The masked half-man had been his closest companion since he had awoken in the ruins, and a kind of quiet understanding between the two men had grown where they could almost feel what the was thinking. That Zath was more experienced than Tarmion by a wide margin had lead to the fact that he had grown into the role of not only a friend, but also an advisor.

"Right," Tarmion nodded quietly, then raised his voice. "Very well, lads, good work! Now let's see what this thing can do."

Cheers erupted from the men around him, and four of them together hefted a heavy log onto the arm of the machine they had built while most of the others were pulling the ropes into position. Realizing they expected him to give the command, he raised his hand.

"On my mark!" he shouted, and their eyes fixed on him. "Fire!"

Almost simultaneously everybody let go of the ropes, and the arm shot forward with a deep moan. The whole frame rocked, but everyone was fixed on the heavy log that until just that moment had rested safely on the swing - and now was flying through the air in a wide arch. They had set up markers, coloured ribbons in the branches of bushes, to measure the range. The log passed the fifty paces mark, crossed a hundred, then a hundred and fifty paces, then thundered into the dry ground only inches short of the two hundred paces marker.

A flock of large, black crows sat quietly in the crowns of the nearby trees. Tarmion felt a slight shiver run down his spine as he looked at them, watched them _watch them_.

Zath inclined his head towards him.

"We've gathered an audience," he remarked with dry humour.

"Is _he_ watching?" Tarmion almost whispered the question, but the masked man just shrugged his shoulders and turned his head away from the trees.

"Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. Maybe _someone_ is. Or maybe they've just sat down there because they know they'll get the leftovers from our camp fires. Ravens are mean, but very clever birds, my friend. Some myrddraal even have them as pets."

Tarmion shot him an incredulous glance, and Zath started to laugh. It was a deep, pleasant sound.

"Cruelty, mischief and slyness attract each other. And there's no doubt that both are sly. Burn me, some of those birds can even talk!" he rumbled, shaking his head. He noticed Tarmion's look and shrugged. "Don't worry. No need to see phantoms were there are none. And," he pointed back at the machine, "we have other things to bother our heads about," he sighed and pointed towards the machine.

The siege engine rocked back and forth, and more violently so with every shot they took, almost toppling over the fourth time a stone left the sling.

"You bloody morons are doing it wrong," a voice that sounded as tired as it sounded bored cut through the clamour. Everybody turned around, looking for its origin. The Taraboner stood at the edge of their little construction site, leaning against a tree while chewing on a strip of dried meat.

"Damn peasants," he muttered lowly, but still loud enough for all to hear it. "What you do is like prodding a bull with a sharp stick, all the while expecting it to hold still."

In his soiled clothes and dirty beard he looked as if he had slept beneath a heap of garbage. And maybe he had. His sour stench preceded him as he slowly walked into their midst, men wrinkling their noses, making no efforts to hide their disgust.

"Aryman, is it?"

The man answered him with a wry grin, bemused about the people around him who recoiled from his presence.

"Then tell me, Aryman, what should we do?" Tarmion asked with as much politeness as he could muster.

"Burn you, boy, let it run, of course!" he explained with an expression that made clear he had just told them something that should be as obvious as the act of breathing itself. "Put some wheels under it!"

Later that day, when they had finished their work, Tarmion watched him closely as he sat by the fire. The men were joking and making jests and bragging about their day's work, but Aryman just sat there, holding the cup with the sour wine in both hands, and stared into the flames, his face gradually becoming harder beneath all the grime and sweat and dust, turning into a scowl beneath furrowed brows. Still, Tarmion was drawn into a conversation, which he joined only too gladly, renewing his feeling of triumph as it did. When he turned his head to look for the Taraboner again, the man was gone, but Tarmion noticed he had left the cup behind besides the fire, the wine untouched.

That night, Tarmion lay awake under the star spangled sky long after the people around him had fallen asleep. So far, his strain of strange luck had continued. He only hoped that would not change now that it was no longer just all in good fun. From now on, the lives of people would be on the line.

The first occasion to test Tarmion's outlandish ideas they stumbled over purely by chance. It had been almost classical, a turn of events as it usually used to be portrayed in epic stories, a crossroads that lead the hero down a path to glory. In their case, it was a crossroads that lead to Roonheart.

The signs of war were clearly visible after a while on the road, and they were pretty much the same ones Tarmion had always imagined they would be. Zath had noticed them much earlier than he had, of course, and told him so casually to avoid the stares of the others.

It had started with empty farm houses off the road, the doors wide open, hanging from only one angle or being shattered, fields that had not been tended to in a while, meadows devoid of life stock.

Down the road, there came a handful of farmsteads that had been burned to the ground. There was no sign of the people that once had lived their, but the sickly sweet stench of the rotting carcass of a cow almost covered in thick, black flies filled the air while crows were picking at its eyes.

A few miles further, men with spears and bows glowered at them from behind newly raised palisades while women and children hid quietly in the low houses with high-peaked, red-tiled roofs.

The land lay strangely silent. Even those in their convoy who had no idea what was going on around them instinctively felt the tension, summoning their children back onto their wagons and holding axe or spear close to them. The men on horseback drew closer to the wagon train, and the banter and laughter that had accompanied them all so far slowly ebbed away, until all that was left was a quiet procession that suspiciously monitored the lands around them for an unseen danger they felt was there.

Twice they came upon people in shabby clothes rummaging through the remains of burned-out houses, but those fled once they saw them coming, vanishing into hedges and nearby woods. The few farmsteads that seemingly were still inhabited sported barreers of spiked wooden beams and wary farmers and their sons and elders standing guard. Once they were shot at, but the arrow fell short and the farmer berated his son for wasting a good arrow, as did Mellen when one of the cockier young ones from their wagon train tried to answer the shot. They quietly rode past their land and its glowering dwellers.

Mellen was distraught about what he saw around him, and said so several times. Tarmion could see the same sentiment in many of the other faces, but he urged him to keep going, and was surprised to find Yurion and some of the older others agreeing with him. Most of the younger ones that had built their weapon together seemed rather eager to him and not worried. Half of them had moved to the column's top, to him, where there horses formed a wedge with Tarmion, Zath, Mellen and Yurion at its point.

Roonheart came as a surprise to all of them.

The town rested on a hill in the center of a hollow with soft slopes, and in sharp contrast to the silence that had accompanied them for the past hours the ridge they stopped on made way for the sound of battle that was waged around the town's defences. While the women of the Strongquarry folk rushed their children into the seclusion of the group's wagons, the men edged forward, lining up along the edge of the ridge.

None of them had ever seen a town that large, and none had ever seen a battle.

Roonheart covered the top of the small central hill, it's grey walls rising twenty feet high, crowned by red brick battlements and interspersed with stocky, round towers. The ground around the walls had been dug off to make them rise even higher. Men exchanged volleys of arrows and thrown rocks and spears. Ladders were brought forward against the walls while other men hid behind high wicker shields, but the shields were set aflame by burning arrows and the ladders were pushed over by the men manning the battlements.

A bitter fight was raging at the ramp that lead to the city gates and the drawbridge.

Two shield walls had formed, two crescents, the outer one assaulting the inner one, while the men on the walls and the two half-round gate towers exchanged flights of arrows with those behind the greater crescent and the wicker shields.

Tall banners were waving in the wind: four golden bees on a red field, tall and proud from poles atop the battlements; a silver stag on purple, fierce and angry from a dozen pikes among the besieging men. There were also other colours mixed between them on smaller banners, too small to discern them from their position.

The sounds of steel on steel, of men crashing into each other, of the frenzy of battle and of the cries of the wounded and dying filled the hollow. The defenders had the better, higher ground, but the assailants were more numerous and had already drawn a ring around Roonheart. It acquiesced Tarmion that the sight of the slaughter ahead had culled some of the enthusiasm the younger ones had shown at first. This was no game, and now that he had more or less taken over responsibility over them he owed it everybody, himself included, to try his best for them.

High-peaked, colourful tents rose amidst a multitude of small tarpaulins on the southern slope of the hollow. Grey smoke from dozens of cook fires hung over the encampment that was surrounded by wooden watch towers – watch towers which had spotted them. A detachment of soldiers on horseback came racing towards them, drawing a dusty cloud behind them. The silver stag angrily flapped in the wind from the second rider's lance.

"Stay calm, everybody!" he called out, hoping nobody had heard his voice tremble while there suddenly was movement among the ranks besides him.

The riders came closer, their horses' hooves thundering. When they were only twenty paces away from them, the leader pulled his mount's reins hard. The animal reared up and neighed, and everybody instinctively backed off a step. Only Zath snorted disdainfully but remained silent otherwise, sitting straight in his saddle with his arms crossed before his chest.

The soldiers all wore the silver stag on their surcoats, but that was were the similarities ended. Their armour ranged from none at all to steel breast plates and helmets with purple feathertops. Dust was settling down on them. Their leader bore an angry red scar across his face. With a kick he drove his own mount forward and mustered them with hostile eyes.

"Who are you? Speak! Whom do you claim allegiance to?" the one with the feathertop helmet and the scar demanded harshly while the men under his command almost casually lead their horses so that they ended up forming a loose line covering all off the men around Tarmion and his friends.

"My name is Aryman Sadras," a gruff voice announced from behind the travellers' group. A murmur went through the ranks as the Taraboner – was that really him? - slowly drove his red fox forward. His face was gaunt and pale but clean-shaven, his grey hair was cut short. Over a dark red, almost crimson tunic and trousers of the same colour he wore a harness of boiled, black leather. Similar pieces protected his arms, knotted together with leather strings. The blade with the heron mark hung tightly on the flanks of his mount, hilt pointing forward.

"I was 1st Lieutenant of the Companions and banner bearer in the war against the Aiel. Now I ride with Tarmion Genda and these people."

He gave the scarred man a level look with his steel-blue eyes and a sardonic grin.

"And our allegiance lies with the highest bidder," he shot Tarmion a glance that signalized 'Ball's in your field now, boy.'

Tarmion drove his own horse a pace forward so that it was no he and the warrior facing each other.

"I am Tarmion Genda," he slightly bowed his head.

The mounted warrior eyed him dismissively and scowled. Still, some courtesy was left in this angry face, and with a start he gave him the faintest nod of his head.

"My name is Captain Hullen Juram. I command Lord Erman Halvaed's personal guard. You people be swords for hire?" he sceptically raised an eyebrow and seemed to judge each of them individually. The expression on his face made it clear they fell woefully short of his expectations.

"Don't look like much, Sir," the banner bearer commented dryly.

"Shut your mouth, Bellam," Juram growled without looking at the man, even though his face expressed the same sentiment.

"We have our gifts and specialities, Captain Juram," Tarmion forced a smile on his face.

Juram's scowl told him exactly how much he believed that, but to his surprise the man just shrugged hi shoulders.

"Well, they better be worth it. My liege does not like to waste his time with loudmouths."

Tarmion vigorously upheld his smile.

"I can assure you, Captain, that we are very good at-."

"I don't care, man," the soldier turned his horse around. "Convince Lord Halvaed, not me. And you better convince him good, because," he smiled cruelly, "if you fail I'll drive you and your people off."

Aryman and Tarmion rode back to the encampment with the Ghealdanian soldiers, the Taraboner giving off an air of confidence Tarmion could only dream of emulating. The other riders kept a careful distance to the man with the heron-marked sword, and even sulky Captain Juram seemed to feel uneasy around the gaunt fellow, his eyes staring straight forward, never touching the man he rode with.

It was a short ride, but Tarmion disliked the silence and barely hidden hostility. To break the silence as much as to gloss over his own insecurity, he asked Jumar why they were fighting here.

"For mercenaries you are an extraordinarily uninformed," the Captain commented dryly.

"Well, we did not take the road to Roonheart with the intention to lend our service to your master. We stumbled into this conflict by mere chance."

"By chance?" he asked incredulously.

Aryman shrugged.

"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills."

Juram sighed.

"Well, no matter. The men behind those walls have insulted my lord's honour on numerous occasions. Their peasants poach in my lord's woods, draw water for their fields from his streams and plant and sow on lands that are not theirs. They have not listened to reason, well, now they _will_ listen to steel."

"I am no man known to these things like my friend from Tarabon," he nodded towards Aryman, "but isn't there a king in Ghealdan? Not that I'm not glad about the opportunity to make good coin...," he tried to overcome the knot in his bowels by joking, and failed miserably at it.

However, Juram did not seem to spot it, at least for the moment. He just scowled at the remark.

"The king? The king is nothing but-," he cut his sentence off and shook his head. "It's not my place to judge these things. Lord Halvaed might speak about them, if it pleases him." He stopped in front of the largest tent of the camp. "Here we are."

"The king?" Halvaed roared furiously. "Blood and ashes, what good is that oaf for! Dim-witted son of a Amadician whore, that's all he is, sitting behind Jehannah's walls, fucking his mistresses and wearing fancy hats!" he threw the map off the table.

Juram quietly picked it up and rolled it together while the Ghealdanian lord continued to vent his anger.

"You know what he said to me? You know what he said when I came to explain my grievances?" 'Reconcile with each other, noble lords'," he imitated a nasal voice. "Reconcile!" he growled. "I didn't want to hug Kivars fat hides. I wanted justice! Fuckin' jester dressed as a king... ."

Erman Halvaed has was stocky man in the middle of his fifties, with thin grey hair growing atop a square face that rested upon a broad neck. He was in full plate armour, except for his helmet which rested on top of a wooden stand. It was purple, open-faced and crowned by a polished antler. The man had been brooding over a set of maps on the table in the middle of the tent when Captain Juram had lead Tarmion and Aryman inside. He sighed and suddenly seemed very tired, focussing on the newcomers to his tent.

"So, mercenaries it is? Plainly spoken, man, I do not need more fodder for the crows. At least, not yet," he snorted, looking doubtfully at the scenes outside his tent. "So, can you make the ground heave and tremble so that Roonheart's walls will fall? Do you have a witch in your ranks that can call lightning down on Kivar's wretched lot?" he asked in a mocking tone. "If not, why should I pay you coin, or attention?"

"Because you want that town, and we can give it to you," Tarmion responded calmly.

"Hah! Well, you're none too modest, burn me. That much I grant you," he barked a laughter. "Boy, I always get what I want, and I'll get Roonheart and Kivar's ugly head on a platter. I'll either storm the bastard's walls or starve him out of them. I don't need no advice at that," he spat on the floor, dangerously close to Tarmion's boots.

For all their sake, Tarmion ignored it and gulped down his anger. Before he could speak, Aryman spoke up.

"Yes, but at what costs, my lord? All you have to storm a walled city are ladders and a ram. If my eyes don't deceive me, half of your army are levied smallfolk - the very people who pay your taxes. If you attack Roonheart like that, both sides will walk neck-deep in their own blood. The only alternative to that is a long siege, and there again your people don't pay their taxes, their fields remain barren, and in the end it'll give you a half-starved town. With us, this town will be yours within days, not months."

"Yeah, blood and ashes, _as if_. Now you're adding brag to bravado, and I'm not in the mood for dalliances of that kind. I'm a country noble, but don't take me for a fool. What makes you so special that you think your hundred people can storm the walls were an army like mine has failed? Stop dreaming, and stop wasting my time."

He turned around and addressed Juram.

"Captain, bring those men back to their wagons and see they are gone by the morrow."

"We don't intend to storm those walls for you," Tarmion informed the agitated noble with an ice cold voice that seemed to momentarily draw the heat of anger out of the tent and whose firmness surprised himself the most. "We intend to _breach_ them for you."

Juram had grabbed him by the shoulders, but Halvaed motioned him to cease. Calculating green eyes drilled into him.

"This better be good, lad," he stated with a voice devoid of the anger and agitation which had been so apparent only moments before.

They fired the first shot the next morning. Lord Halvaed had come to their camp on the high ridge, followed by a column of guards on horseback lead by Captain Juram. He watched wide-eyed as an eighty pound boulder arched high into the air, only to crash into the ground almost two hundred and fifty paces away.

Unlike the day before, Tarmion now was beaming with pride and confidence as the men who had helped him build the trebuchet were relentlessly and to their best abilities manning the machine.

"So, how much do you want for your wondrous machine to smash my enemy's walls?"

"Four thousand golden marks," Tarmion stated flatly.

Halvaed's eyes almost bulged out of his head, and his face turned red in an instant.

"Four thousand? Are you mad?"

"We spare you the pain of a lengthy and costly siege and a massacre. In return you get a city full of healthy people who pay you taxes and who did not have to resort to eating rats to avoid starvation. We both know the city's worth a lot more than that, m'lord," he responded calmly. He had had the night to think about his arguments. "It's what a large river barge makes in two good years. We have five times the mouths to feed. We have material expenses to cover, too, and frankly: what I do is a hundred times as dangerous as river trade."

Halvaed frowned.

"Even if I agreed, I doubt there even is that much coin in that wretched city."

That was probably true. Golden coins were not often used in daily business. After some moments of consideration Tarmion nodded.

"All right, m'lord, here is how we shall do this. When this is done, we shall have our payment like this: a quarter in provisions, a half in loot, and the rest in coins. And a hundred up front, so that both sides remember their part of the deal."

The Ghealdanian nobleman looked back to the city walls and to the trebuchet, and after some moments he nodded reluctantly. The deal was made.

About three hundred paces from the gates and two hundred from the town walls away where the slope was the flattest. Arrows stuck in the ground in front of them, but even from their elevated positions the short bows of the defenders of Roonheart lacked the power to put them into danger.

The men from Strongquarry had gathered all the large boulders they could find in the vicinity of the town. Some of them were rough rocks, hardly weighing fifty pounds, while others were smooth and overgrown with moss and and six times as heavy.

Bowmen and three lines of men with shield and spear idly stood by while Tarmion shouted commands and Mellen and the others gave them a meaning and executed them. Their machinations also had drawn an audience on the battlements across from them that eyed them curiously.

Even though the sky was clouded and a cool breeze was blowing Tarmion and his men had sweat their clothes to the bones when they were finally ready to fire. Even though it had been placed on big wooden wheels, the trebuchet still easily weighed three tons, and positioning it was hard labour.

"Ready?" Tarmion cried out, and a flurry of "Ready!" 's answered him, signalizing that the men had done all that was to do and were out of the range of the dangerous, large swinging arm.

"Fire!"

"Fire!" Mellen repeated the order, and another man pulled the lever that held the cocked arm back.

Thick rope raced through winches and the long beam with the wide sling at it's end heaved upwards and forwards, yanking the sling with it and setting the massive boulder free.

The cries of wonder on the battlements turned into cries of terror as they realized just what the machine they had observed till then did.

The projectile arched over the walls and battlements and the defenders on them and thundered into the town behind it. Grey smoke rose into a dusty cloud.

"Too high," Zath commented matter of factly. "Needs a flatter angle."

The men at the trebuchet did not need a command to see that. They were already busy re-adjusting the huge machine, pulling down the swing and loading a new boulder into the sling. Mellen adjusted a steel notch, then gave a nod to Tarmion. The grey haired, half-bald former innkeeper had joined them only lately, and mostly to spite his restless wife, but his presence let the men feel at ease, and he had fast grown enthusiastic about what they did so far.

"Fire!" Tarmion yelled the command a second time, and once again the machine went into action with the moan of wood and metal. The projectile left the sling and shot towards Roonheart in a low arch. With the sound of a boot crushing a bug the hundred pound rock sheered off a three paces wide portion of the battlements, throwing any defender in the vicinity aside like a rag doll in cries of pain and death and terror.

A flurry of arrows rose in the air from the walls, plastering the green between the siege engine and the walls like a hedgehog. One of the spearmen made a rude remark and the whole company erupted with laughter while the men at the machine had already begun to prepare it again. They were like in a trance.

"Same angle, greater weight!" Mellen commanded on his own, and this time the rock that was catapulted into the air easily weighed thirty stone.

It struck the wall at the upper third of its height and ripped a whole the size of a grown man into the masonry. The impact sounded like a mill grinding old bones and sent shivers down the spine of every soul who heard it. The sections of the wall to its left and right trembled. Lord Halvaed's soldiers started banging their spears against their shields and shouted "Halvaed!" or hurled insults towards the men buzzing atop the walls of the town.

Of the next to shots one fell short, but the other collapsed the part of the wall between the hole and the battered battlements above. The Strongquarry men were preparing the next shot when Zath called out.

Columns of armed men were pouring out from the city gates. Their vanguard had already crossed half the distance between them, and the men dispatched to guard them nervously moved into position. Only moments later arrows were in the air, and with the battle cry "Roonheart!" the town's defenders began their charge. Steel clashed against steel.

Tarmion felt the icy fingers of panic grasping for his heart. He knew he needed to say something, do something, but his mouth defied him.

It was Zath who stepped into the void he had left and rallied the men to stay and fight. Aryman stood besides him, as did Mellen, and that sight was enough for the moment to put a bit of hope back into the Strongquarry men's hearts.

The Roonheart men were cutting themselves a gap through the stalwart shield wall. Their goal was clear: destroy the machine that was destroying the wall. Destroy it, and kill them all.

Panic was replaced by a spark of senseless anger, and he grabbed his large war hammer and jumped into the breach.

He swung the hammer with two hands and slammed it into one man's shield. The shield, and the arm holding it, broke, and the man vanished back into the bloody turmoil. Tarmion fought on, swinging his hammer effortlessly, howling and laughing like a mad man. The heat of battle had him. There was no exhaustion, no fear, no pain, only the rush.

Somewhere he lost his battle hammer in the slaughter into which the confrontation had devolved. Tarmion found himself on the ground, kneeling on a man's chest, smashing his face was a rock. The salty, copper-like scent of blood filled the air. Another man stormed towards him. Tarmion threw the rock. It hit him squarely in the chest, not hurting him, but startling him long enough for Tarmion to unsheath his sword and grab a mace from the corpse at his feet.

Black shadows raced across the sky, and he felt a sting in his right leg. The man charged. Metal thundered against metal. The attacker was smaller than Tarmion. In fact, most of the people around him were smaller.

He laughed manically and shoved the man back a pace, bringing the mace and blade to bear in a staccato of blasts. It had none of the elegance that Zath exuded when he gave him lessons on sword fighting. It was sheer raw force, bludgeoning the other man till he gave in. Again and again the heavy iron head of the mace hammered against the shield until the man had to pull it back to protect his arm. That moment his defence was open, and Tarmion's sword came down, cutting off his sword arm like a butcher with his cleaver. Crying, grasping for the stump of his arm, the man fell to his knees, and Tarmion threw himself deeper into the battle.

Mellen ran past him, wielding a cleaver in one hand and a woodcutter's axe in the other, a bloody cut across his chest, his eyes aflame with the fever of battle. The man that fled from him looked a lot worse than that. Yurion was charged by someone in full armour and shot the man at point blank range through his helmet's slits. The other's had fallen back behind the shield wall and were firing their arrows blindly into the enemy's ranks.

He felt the sting again. Warding off another attacker by cutting off his spear with his sword and then crushing the shoulder that had held it, he noticed the arrow that had gone through his leg. More irritated than afraid at the wound and the blood trickling from both sides of his leg he broke the shaft off with a grunt of diluted pain.

Bowing down to do so saved his life.

A man clad in a surcoat with the colours of Roonheart over a shirt of boiled leather swung a double-bladed heavy axe with two hands at him. Tarmion's head seemed to jump, and the fever seemed to spike. Reality seemed to narrow down only to him and the man in front of him, a tall, broad-shouldered attacker, a bearded face snarling at him from under a steel cap.

And suddenly, his wounded leg gave in beneath him, and he stumbled down to his knees. The axeman howled with glee, the heavy weapon in his hands racing up to gather momentum for one final, deadly blow. Folk wisdom had it that one saw his whole life replayed before one's eyes just before the embrace of death. Tarmion saw none of that. He could see every drop of sweat on the other man's body, every line in the wood of the axe's shaft, every grain of the steel and every bit of blood on it. He could see all the triumph in the man's eyes as his axe began its way back down – and for the short time that it lasted, all the surprise of the world as a horseman's lance hit him sideways in the chest and through him away like a rag doll.

Flanking the defenders of Roonheart, charging down the slope, Lord Halvaed and his personal guard had crashed into the undefended side of the men fighting under the banner of the golden bees and sent them running back to town.

Zath found him a long time after it all had settled down again. Tarmion had no idea or memory how he had climbed back up the ridge again. He was leaning against a tree when the masked man with the elegance of a snake appeared next to him. The wound in his leg was throbbing and had started to ache. The chestnut-haired man felt cold and exhausted as if he had worked for a week straight without any sleep. Cold sweat came in boosts, and except for that one leg his limbs felt as if they had been made off jelly. He had vomited, twice. The conscious memories of the battle still made his skin crawl and stomach churn, and with each image that crept into his mind came a new boost of fear.

"Your wounds need to be tended," Zath spoke softly and put an arm around him, allowing Tarmion to hobble back into the camp. He numbly did as he was told. He felt so weak, so exhausted.

And he feared going back to the camp, back to the icy glares of the women whose husbands had been wounded and put into mortal danger because of him, because of his ideas.

Instead found himself surrounded by the men that had manned the trebuchet and fought by his side, _his_ men - and they were cheering for him! Nearly everybody was bruised, most wore bandages, some were limping and some lay unconsciously on stretchers and were being treated, but those who could walk shook his hands, hugged him, gave him slaps on the shoulders and jested with him.

"We gave 'em hell!" someone shouted and was answered by loud cheers.

Another one shouted "Strongquarry!", and the cry was taken up by a hundred throats and repeated.

"Yeah, a bloody quarry," another voice gruffly called, drawing angry murmurs from within the crowd, only to continue, "for them! Express delivery!" and have the laughs on its side.

Numbly he made it through the camp. Despite the bloodshed the elders and women felt it hard not to succumb to the cheerful euphoria of the men who had just gone through and won their first battle. Still, Tarmion felt their gaze on him.

Marisa and her father were waiting for them at their horse and cart. Tarmion braced himself for a tirade – this time even he himself would have agreed with everything she was to say – but when she saw the wound her angry expression was replaced by something else, if just for a second.

Zath let him slide to the ground besides her, and she calmly began to strip off his clothes and clean him with a wet cloth.

"Light, you look terrible."

Tarmion felt to weak and exhausted to even answer and just grunted.

"Most of the blood isn't his," Zath stated levelly and stepped aside.

She tore away the cloth around the wound in his leg and for the first time he yelped in pain, tears shooting into his eyes.

"You men and your foolish ideas of bravery," she muttered and lead a cup to his lips. "Drink!" she commanded. "It's wine, it'll help against the pain."

He gulped it down and demanded more. His throat felt so dry.

"Light, you stink, Tarmion Genda!" she exclaimed, wrinkling her freckled nose.

"I think I soiled myself," he admitted shyly.

"Greater and braver men have done so, too, Tarmion Genda," she said with a strange tone to her voice.

"I doubt Jain Farstrider ever pissed his pants," he coughed and winced when she cleaned another cut with the increasingly red piece of cloth.

"And I doubt he'd put such things into his tales," Aryman declared sardonically. "When was the last time you've read a story where the hero has to take a shit, lad?"

Marisa lay the wound free and poured something from a jar over it.

"Blood and bloody ashes!" he moaned as ripples of pain ran through his whole body. The clean liquid burned like fire. Tarmion tried to move, but Marisa held him firmly with surprisingly strong hands.

"Rye liquor," she explained softly. "My mother taught me that the strongest spirits are the best to clean wounds. Not even wool-heads like you, Tarmion Genda, deserve to get wound fever," she pressed him back down on the grass. "Father, Zath, hold him still, please, I have to remove the arrow and close the wound."

"You've done this before?" the half-man asked in a surprised voice, which produced a smile on the red-haired woman's face.

"Tending wounds? For my father, yes, and for myself," she took a needle and a ball of yarn from a pouch in her skirt and bit of the yarn. "Once I had to do it to an injured mule," she looked down towards Tarmion, "and well, one mule's like the other, right?"

The pain he had felt before was nothing against the piercing agony he felt when Marisa broke off the arrow and pulled it free. He cried - and shame be damned! Zath put a piece of leather in his mouth on which he bit so hard he believed his teeth would burst. When it became even worse, he blacked out.

When he opened his eyes again almost no time seemed to have passed. Marisa was still tending his leg, and everybody else was still there, but the arrow shaft was gone. It did not even hurt that much any more. Or maybe he was just too exhausted to feel the pain there any more.

Aryman smiled down on him.

"It was the right thing, to jump into the breach like that," he said jovially. "The right thing, but not necessarily the smart thing. You could have died," he added with a frown, "and then what? You would've abandoned them all.

"You ride at the point of this wagon train, you decide which way to take, you negotiate with nobles and soldiers. You are the leader here, lad."

"Mellen will be delighted to hear that," he sarcastically pressed through clenched teeth before pressing his lips shut to stifle another anguished cry.

Aryman chuckled and drew his sword and a wetstone from a pouch.

"Right now our dear mayor is most certainly getting an earful from his resolute wife. But that's not the point here, lad. None of you have accepted this yet, but you have become the one who has the command here. By deed you have assumed leadership, and unconsciously they have begun to look to you when problems arise."

"Problems are his speciality," Marisa snorted, but at the same time almost gently cleaned a cut on his arm.

"You have guts, I give you that, lad," Aryman sighed and shook his head. There was not a scratch on the Taraboner, but his sweat-stained clothes and the intensity with which he kept cleaning his blade signalized everybody who cared that the grey-haired, gaunt man had been in the centre of the slaughter.

Right now, Tarmion was not part of those who cared. He howled with every stitch Marisa made. So much for no pain, he thought sourly.

Aryman looked at the wineskin with longing in his eyes, then forced his gaze back to the shimmering blade on his knees.

"Let's all get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Noon had long passed, but the sounds of fighting still hung over the doomed town of Roonheart. Black smoke rose from several streets where houses had been set on fire.

Men in Halvaed colours stood guard at the breach. Fearing another counter-attack, the nobleman had tasked them with pulling down the town's fortification on the side opposite to the gates while he kept them blocked. Fighting had been intense, or so they said. Tarmion, resting on a makeshift wooden cane, could not vouch for that as he looked at the collapsed section of the wall that two days prior had seemed to invincible.

They had pummelled it with rocks, gradually weakening it over a period of more than two hours before the masonry gave in on a part of more than twenty paces wide, in part collapsing outward. The rock and debris had formed a natural ramped over which Captain Juram and the bulk of Lord Halvaed's forces had poured into Roonheart.

The battle at the breach had been brief and bloody. Tarmion's men had supported the attackers by directing their fire towards the battlements and towers the closest to the opening in the wall. Now there were no more defenders atop those walls.

Captain Juram came riding through the breach and stopped his stallion in front of them. His surcoat was slashed and dried blood stained his armour. Apparently none of it was his. His horse was bruised and sported a dozen superficial wounds. The stallion was breathing heavily when the leader of Lord Halvaed's household guard stopped it in front of them.

"How goes the fight?" Aryman asked politely while the others had stopped their work and gathered around the soldier.

"The day's won, the battle's all but over," Juram proclaimed triumphantly and looked over the men around him and back to Tarmion.

"Your men look as if they'd like a piece of the action, Master Genda."

Tarmion wearily looked back at the city and the sounds echoing back from within the walls.

"I think, Captain Juram," he answered cautiously, "that my men have seen enough action, and deserve some rest with their families."

There were some murmurs within the gathered crowd, but obviously Juram had heard enough.

"Oh, I won't stop you from crawling back under your women's skirts," he laughed disdainfully and turned his horse back around. "The spoils belong to the victor. I won't keep them for you!"

Juram pushed his heels into his stallion's sides, and the tall warhorse raced back through the breach into the streets of Roonheart.

"Arrogant son of a Domani whore," someone, probably Mellen, muttered when he was gone.

"Why can't we go to the city?" another voice asked, and received some support from within the crowd. The Strongquarry men had never been to a settlement as big as this, and there was a naive curiosity to their request.

Aryman put and hand on his shoulder and whispered: "Let me handle this," before he climbed into his saddle and let his view stride over them.

"Do you know what happens when a besieged city falls?" Aryman finally asked them in a friendly and patient voice, and began to explain. When he had finished his very graphic description, the men from Strongquarry had turned pale and very rueful. It was a very quiet evening in the camp.

Tarmion and "his" men did not see the inside of Roonheart until two days after the town had fallen. They rode through the open city gates, now guarded by men sworn to Lord Erman Halvaed through narrow roads flanked by stone houses with tiled roofs. It all seemed to have returned to normal as if nothing had ever happened, but the people on the streets lowered their glances whenever they or a soldier passed them by, and when they forgot to do so, the horror and shock of the events they had had to live through were plain to see in their faces. Their payment had been stored in the buildings of the former magistrate's seat.

The magistrate was still there, well, at least a part of him. Rumour had it Halvaed had beheaded his enemy himself, though what difference that made for the result nobody had been able to tell him. Tarmion gazed at the tarred head on a long pike in a mixture of morbid fascination and plain disgust. Others retched, again others very consciously looked away.

Lord Halvaed had already left the city to return to his home seat with Captain Juram and most of his host. Command over the town of Roonheart had been delegated to the hands of a young noble who had distinguished himself through bravery and fervent leadership in battle and restraint and modesty when the spoils of war were to be taken and the loot divided.

Lord Logain Ablar was a friendly, quiet man whose youth and demeanour masked the steel in his body and mind.

Unlike the choleric Halvaed and the sadistic Juram, Lord Ablar had made carefully listening and debating into a virtue, and Tarmion could say he genuinely had enjoyed the brief occasions where he had spoken with the man. A man of clear thoughts, ambition and responsibility.

Tarmion knew who he was, knew it long before they had been introduced to each other. How, he could not say. It was knowledge that was just there, like the one about the trebuchet, or all the tidbits about the world floating around in his head. Logain Ablar would be a False Dragon in 998 NE, throwing Ghealdan into war and chaos.

But right now he was the man who had made sure their part of the bargain was kept, and that was all that mattered.

Three weeks later, after they had recuperated and rested and prepared and made good use of all the loot they had been given, Lord Ablar gave a large feast on midsummer's eve as a sign of reconciliation.

When they left Roonheart two days and nights after the midsummer night's festivities, they had finally turned into what they had pretended to be.

**Author's Notes**

_I have decided to try to keep track of the passing of time for everybody's convenience, mine included, so I will give an approximation of the date at the start of each chapter beneath the headline. Given that the Wheel of Time _Farede Calendar _is based on moon phases, the year has 13 months. Translated into our calendrical system that means that the beginning of the __10__th__ month of the year (Choren) equals the second week of September._


	11. On the Road Eastwards

**Chapter 11**

**On the Road Eastwards**

**The 10****th**** Month of the Year (Choren), 993 N.E. (New Era)**

Tarmion rose from his knees with a slight swaying, courtesy of the wound he had suffered at the siege of Roonheart. More than fifty people had gathered beneath the wide branches of old trees in this oak grove, but besides the farmer and his two sons who were working on the fields maybe two hundred paces away silence filled the space between the high trunks. The grave was unmarked, just a long stretched heap of river rocks in all forms and sizes. Somebody had placed a spray of wild flowers on it.

Zath was around, somewhere, roaming through the woods with a short, curved bow he had taken from Roonheart, looking for danger or prey. Aryman was also absent, commanding the guards that watched over the wagons and the rest of their people there. Marisa and Azral were among the crowd that silently watched the burial.

Mellen had said a few words, courtesies really, as it was the custom of his people. Nobody should be sent off to be judged by the Creator with heavy truths bearing him or her down. Everybody had his vices and virtues, and it were the latter that should be remembered.

Silent tears ran down the dead man's wife's cheeks. Her eyes were red from all the crying, but he could see the anger in them when she looked at him. He could feel all their eyes on him, piercing, asking, crying 'Why? Why did this have to be?'

His heart armoured in steeled resolve, he did not flinch as his pair of eyes met theirs. He held his ground against each of them, until they, one by one, gave in and looked away. He wanted to say he was sorry, but was he really sorry?

The silent accusation was still there, and it made him more angry than it made him sad.

'Why? Because that's the way things are! I saved you at Strongquarry. I gave you a purpose. You were free to go. I never claimed it would come without a price,' he retorted just as silently.

After a while, people started to return to their wagons and family members, and soon thereafter he was alone on the clearing with Marisa and Azral. The scrawny old fellow with the absent-minded eyes waited till nobody else could see him and knelt besides the grave. He pressed both his hands against the ground, and to Tarmion's astonishment, wild flowers in all colours began to sprout from the dry late summer soil, growing in a widening circle around the river rock mound until all the clearing was a bed of flowers. Carefully, Marisa's father rose and hopped across the clearing, back to the wagon train, without squashing a single flower beneath his feet.

The red-haired woman watched him go, deep-seated sorrow apparent in her eyes.

"A man has died," she said calmly after a while. "How many will follow him?"

"As few as possible, if I have a say in it," he answered after thinking about his response.

Nobody should die, Tarmion thought bitterly. But everybody had to, eventually.

[So much is lost], Caraan Tureed commented in a honestly sad tone, breaking the long absence the mad channeler's mind had taken during the past weeks, when all he had heard was a calm buzzing in his ears from time to time.

[I miss my friends, and mother], Sero sounded resigned. [I wish I could be with them...].

Tarmion looked at the thin white scar across the back of his left hand and sighed. There were scars that reached deeper than others... .

"One day, you will be," he muttered.

"What do you mean?"

Tarmion looked up from his hands with a startled look, then shook his head.

"Just brooding over this and that," he lied, waving dismissively. Lying had become so easy, ever more so since he had met Zath, and later Azral. An elaborate spider's web they had gotten used to play like harp with a hundred chords. Small lies, the most of them, more omissions than 'true' lies, but together they amounted to formidable mound. He saw it as practice for his mind, for honing his skills, like keeping track of a party of a game of stones that only took place in one's head.

"What are they dying for, Tarmion Genda?" she asked him quietly. "Why do you lead them, make them do what they do?"

"They follow me voluntarily," he retorted angrily. "I'm not forcing anybody to come with me. I want to make a difference, Marisa. I _know_ I can make a difference. Maybe I could have lived a quiet life somewhere, build a home, marry, have some children. But there would always have been the fire in me, the voice that would have whispered to me when I lay awake at night, the voice telling me: 'There is more than that. You are needed.' That life is not what the Wheel has planned for me. I can feel it, that is not my fate," he winced internally. He gave nothing on notions of fate and prophecy, but what else could he tell her? That he did not know who he was, but knew that the next few years would change the world? That from time to time flood gates opened in his mind that allowed him to read the world around him like it was a good, leather-bound book? That _The Dragon_ was to be reborn in her, in their lifetime?

"Fate? Do you believe that, Tarmion?" he asked softly, calmly, a demeanour that only agitated him further.

"It's like I'm drawing it towards me! Light, Marisa, I wish it wasn't that way, but it is. I am sorry, if that's what you want me to say. I am sorry we came to your home. I am sorry I took your normal life away from you and dragged you and your father away with me. I am sorry that I'm constantly bringing you into danger. I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to see the world and be left alone. I wanted you and your father and all the others be safe and lead a happy life. But I can't. I am what I am. If you want to leave and take your father with you, I will not stand in your way. You can have your share of the gold, and I will thank the Creator when the two of you are safe and sound. But don't ask me to be someone who I am not!"

He exhaled and realized with surprise how the conversation - no, _confession_ - had moved him.

Marisa did not answer him at first. She only looked at him with her serious, blue eyes. Only after a few moments did she move. She started walking past him, but stopped when the two of them were standing almost besides each other. Tarmion kept looking at the smaller woman. He almost flinched when she put a hand on his arm.

"Thank you," Marisa said, softer than usual. Or maybe this was her real voice and he had only forgotten it with the bad mood that had been building up in her. "Thank you, for being honest to me."

She hushed a soft kiss on his cheek, and with that, she was gone, vanishing from the clearing, hurrying back to the camp.

Bedazzled, Tarmion watched her go, realizing he had doubled his fists during the whole time. His fingernails had dug into the palms, and pain spread from his hands when he stretched his fingers again. The chestnut-haired man shook his head.

"Women," he muttered. Sometimes he just could make no sense of them.

Two more times they had found employment in western Ghealdan before they headed further south and east, giving the royal domain a wide berth until they reached the main road leading towards Altara and Murandy, and from there on further into the east.

The first battle had been a fortified estate, a squabble between nobles far more minor than those that had let their men fight for Roonheart. The heavy rain that accompanied the beginning of early autumn had made setting up and adjusting their machine a perilous and time-consuming task. The rain-soaked ropes lost tension, and the wooden beams became far heavier than was good for all of them. Raindrops gathering in the sling also hindered them from getting a clean shot.

They persevered, but at a cost. Two more men had died, and three more families had left the wagon train. Four had already stayed behind in Roonheart, occupying houses whose former inhabitants had been killed in the battle for the town. Zath and Tarmion held bets on those families they believed were the next to go, but deep inside himself Tarmion felt relieved they were leaving. The life he had chosen was no life for people who could not adapt. It was far too dangerous for that.

In truth, however, their numbers had not diminished. There was no shortage of young men with adventure on their mind, and hardly a village passed by in which there was not someone who wanted to join them (even though their families usually were a lot less approving of that kind of ideas).

That their appearance had changed since they had first besieged a town was another helping factor. Many had adopted the grey of Tarmion and Zath as their own colours, resulting in an unofficial uniform of the men and helping women consisting of tunics, coats and trousers in various degrees of grey. They also had drawn what they could from the gear the defeated army had left when it had been disarmed. Boiled and hardened, studded leather jerkins and bracers, steel caps, coloured shields bound to the sides of wagons and horses where they were within arms' reach, swords at every man's side, that gave the impression of a formidable small army on the march. Tarmion himself wore a knee-length, sleeveless steel hauberk beneath a dark grey surcoat, polished and oiled with great care every evening. Zath called a similar shirt of mail his own, but Tarmion always thought his best friend moved as smoothly and elegantly in his as a snake, while he himself had felt almost clumsy during the first days.

Their third battle, however, had seen the culmination of the experiences they had gathered so far. With the ropes dried and oiled, the beams and iron parts sealed with tar and the machine placed on solid ground the two towered gate house of the fortified small town that had been build on a ridge above a tributary to the eastern River Boern had been reduced to tatters within two days.

None of those employments had earned them even half as much as the siege of Roonheart had done, but they had replenished and bolstered their stocks and ranks, enough that they had had three extra wagons made to serve just as their supply train.

They had passed through more than two dozen villages and small towns along the eastern road, eyed curiously in each, when they met a pair of travellers on the sunny second day of Choren's last week, and there it was their turn to be curious.

With their bright and fine tailored clothes, their well-combed hair and clean shaven faces, the two riders stood in sharp contrast to Tarmion and the dusty wagon train that followed him. Gold glittered in sunlight from several rings on each man's hands, and both wore thin blades in elaborately worked sheaths on the belts around their waists. They had stopped their horses on a ridge when they became aware of the approaching wagon train. Looking neither very dangerous nor very accustomed to the area, Yurion had nonetheless let his outriders, who had started as his hunting band, swarm out to secure their flanks. Ghealdan could be a dangerous place, even on the old road, and even if one had their numbers.

Tarmion, Zath and Yurion rode forward to meet them.

"Greetings, fellow travellers! My name is Tarmion Genda, from Cairhien, and these are my companions and fellow siege crafters," he announced while taking a closer look at the newcomers. "You seem lost to me, good sirs. Can we be of assistance?"

"I am Lord Tyro Lamian, from Cairhien," the first one nodded politely, "and the handsome quiet man next to me is Ruan Sonbald, my companion on my travels. Pardon my curiosity, but it is not often that I meet a fellow countryman in these parts of the world. Ghealdan is such a ghastly and uncultivated place," he sniffed, and despite himself Tarmion had to smile, too. There was an openness to the superficiality of the man that made him immediately likeable.

"I hate to disappoint you even more, Lord Lamian, but I can tell you for a fact that was it not for Jehennah it would not get any better if you continued on this road."

"Then I will heed your warning, Lord Genda," Lamian answered with a hint of a courteous bow, and Tarmion noticed not for the first time that when you rode at the front of a column it was easy to be mistaken for a nobleman. "I am deeply sorry, Master Genda. Forgive me, but I have never heard your house's name before," Lamian apologized in the same chatty tone as before.

"No offence taken, my dear Lord. In honest truth, the opposite would have had surprised me," he started to improvise and dismounted. "Yurion, we rest here for lunch. The horses need a break from that bloody road." Tarmion turned to his two 'countrymen' again. Yurion walked away with an expression of relief on his weather beaten face. "My father called a scrawny piece of land a bit too close to the Dragonwall his own," he continued building a more elaborate lie.

"Oh, that would explain the hair," Lord Lamian's companion commented.

"Why, yes!" the Cairhienian quipped in happy surprise, then added a polite smile when he saw Tarmion's puzzled face. "Forgive me, my friend. We mean the Aiel blood," he pointed at Tarmion's auburn hair.

Realizing what he meant by that, Tarmion snorted and dismissed the notion with a wink of his hand.

"I very much doubt that, my lord Lamian. The very first Aiel my father saw was the one that came to burn our house down, and I still remember my mother. She was no Aiel either," he shrugged.

He did not even consider that a lie. More like creating a background for a role. Everything before his awakening was a blur, and the longer he remained here, the weaker any conscious memories became. Everybody needed a past. And right here, now, why should this not be his?

"Well, of course, my Lord Genda. It was not my wish to imply, well, immodest thoughts," Lamian answered, though the man's mischievous grin said the contrary. "Me, I have never seen an Aielman before, praise the Light. I was still too young to fight in the great war. A shame, really."

Tarmion had seen his share of fights and bloodshed during the past months, and weighing the man with his eyes he did not need a second glance to realize the foppish dandy would not have been any great help in a fight, even if the Aiel had been a lot less capable then the stories made them out to be. Hell, even I could handle that one, he thought to himself.

"Well, we all have our burdens to bear," he answered evenly before his face brightened again. "My people will rest here for the midday hours, my Lords. I would be honoured if we could share our meals with you. The food is simple, but it will be hot and plentiful."

"Why, a splendid idea! The day where Lord Tyro Lamian denies an honest invitation has yet to dawn. Thank you, Lord Genda, it's an honour. Ruan, let's go!" he elegantly slid from his saddle and grabbed the reins of his horse.

"The honour's mine, Lord Lamian," Tarmion nodded courtly. "Let me lead the way."

The first camp fires had already been lit when Zath, Tarmion and their illustrous guests descended down the ridge back to the wagon train. Yurion and Mellen had driven the wagons and horses off the road onto a meadow where they had made camp for lunch in a double-lined half-circle. Half a dozen guards on horses, wearing shields and long spears, patrolled the vicinity of their encampment. In the middle of it, Aryman had assembled the remaining men of fighting age and was drilling them in the use of their swords while women and children were preparing their meals.

The wagons themselves were only scarcely reminiscent of those that had left the small, separated village in the east after it had been destroyed by avalanche and thunderstorm. Instead of the scrawny and makeshift carts now large, timbered wagons on strong wooden wheels rolled over the streets and dusty roads, drawn by two or even four strong horses or equally strong, but more stubborn oxen. They were painted in plain colours, but people everywhere they went said they reminded them somewhat of those of the tinkers'. Almost all had small windows and even small iron stoves. One even had been turned into a small mill and bakery, with two mid-sized, hand-cranked millstones and a stone oven made for bread baking. When time permitted it, Azral went around the camp and started carving figures and pictures into the wagons' roof's beams. Still, half the people only used their wagons for travelling and camped in tents made from oily cloth.

Lord Lamian and his companion took the scenery in like travelling scholars who witnessed something very peculiar and yet pittoresque.

"Lord Genda, this is fascinating!" Lamian clapped his hands, his eyes bright like those of a child. "May I talk with your people? This shall be a very special chapter in the tales of my travels!"

"By all means, Lord Lamian, by all means. Your horses shall also be tended to. I will join you shortly," Tarmion claimed while kneeling down besides a fireplace.

When the two men were safely out of earshot, Zath leaned over to him with a questioning glance in his onyx eyes.

"_Lord_ Genda? Are you finally remembering something?"

"Not really," he muttered while poking the embers with a burned twig. "More like building a back story. If I am someone, why not someone from Cairhien? I mean, I have to be _someone_, don't I?" he frowned. "I envy you, Zath. For whatever you have gone through, you at least know who you are, where you come from. For me, it's all fragments and guesswork and finding out only be whether it _feels_ right or not."

"And Cairhien feels right?"

Tarmion threw the twig into the fire.

"It's more complicated than that, I fear," he looked around to see if they were alone. "You see, most the time, the fragments that I _do_ remember, they are more like something I have read rather than something I have truly experienced. Cairhien, yes, that's the Aiel War, streets arranged like a game of stones, the library, the towers, _da'es damar_, Foregate, it's all there. And at the same time, it's not. Does that make any sense?"

"I guess some of it does. Don't twist your mind too much, my friend. Be content that there is _something_ you can remember. Now, come on, we don't want to let our guests wait... Lord Genda," he snickered and turned away.

Tarmion rolled his eyes and followed him. What, in the name of the Creator, had he started here again?

Their two foppish guests soon had garnered a reputation quite alike that of obnoxious distant relatives who pestered everybody with their questions (even though, truth be told, it was Tyro Lamian who did most of the questioning). Luckily for all of them, nobody considered them that much of a nuisance during their stop for lunch that he or Mellen or any other authoritative figure had to intervene.

The general feeling was that the two men were... irritating, but entertaining through their pure presence. The Cairhienians, especially Lord Lamian, understood it to make themselves the centre of every conversation he took part in, and Lamian talked of his travels in sweeping words while most others ate their lunch, a peppered stew with beans, onions and potatoes with fresh garlic bread and cheese.

He wondered what to make of the strange couple.

Tyro Lamian talked enough for the silent rest of them combined. It was obvious the superficial man liked the sound of his voice, and loved being in the centre of attention. He was a dandy through and through, styled after what seemed to be the latest thing in the upper circles of nobility these days, which were richly embroidered silken tunics, boots decorated with silver or copper plates and wide-brimmed hats with long peacock feathers – besides the jewellery and perfume, of course.

Naturally, the nobleman eagerly told them about himself.

He was a bachelor, only son of an older, but smaller noble house in Cairhien, a rather typical spoiled brat in Mellen's judgement who grew up while the tasks of governing and administration of the family's goods and lands were handled by higher servants and _senescalls_. Still, he was an open-minded, amicable fellow. Superficial, but nice. He gushed over Cairhien's shining walls and great palaces, of the bibliotheque and the poets and singers there. His father, he told them, was already old and demanded him to finally marry, but he had wrought this last great journey from him so he could see the world and enjoy other's company before his heritage would confine him to Cairhien's court. A short glance to Ruan Sonbald confirmed Tarmion's hunch, but he did not bring it up.

Entertained by the nobleman's tales their lunch break passed by like sand in an hourglass, and it was only when the first wagons started moving again that they realized it was time to move on.

"Alas, it seems the time to bid each other farewell has come already," Tyro Lamian noticed heavy-heartedly.

"So it seems," Aryman nodded, and Tarmion added: "It has been a pleasure making your aquaintances."

"Likewise, Lord Genda, likewise," the Cairhienian replied, his face brightening. "I have one last favour to ask before letting you go: which way is the safest to take from here on?"

"Well, if you follow the road to Jehennah, you should travel a lot safer than on any other road. I am certain the royal city will have something to offer to such a widely travelled man as yourself, my Lord," he bowed courtly. "May the Light illumine you on your travels, Lord Lamian, and you as well, Ruan Sonbald."

**The Boern River Crossing**

**Eastern Ghealdan, 1****st**** Week of Shaldine, 993 N.E. ****(New Era)**

This year's spring flood had torn down the old wooden bridge, and the completion of the construction of a new one, this time one made from stone built in short arches, would still take months, if not years. With the coming of autumn and the autumn rains, the work had ceased already. Traffic on the road now lead down towards the Boern's shore where the water was shallow enough to serve as a ford for all that travelled on the east-west road. The river flowed slowly here, but the ground was too muddy to truly serve as a ford, and while they tried hard to get their wagons across all in one part and without the river taking them, they more than once had to offer a helping hand to lone carts and travellers, common folk and merchants alike who were unable to cope with driving their mules through the four foot deep, muddy floods.

Once the first wagons had crossed the ford, their draught animals were unhitched and used to help the rest of them pass. Tarmion was in the middle of it, helping where help was needed, pushing and pulling wagons that became stuck in the muddy ground, his teeth chattering as the water kept tugging at his clothes.

"Where's the maskman?" Mellen wanted to know. 'Maskman' had become the name most people that were not his closest friends used when they talked about Zath. Tarmion had first feared the name would alienate the half-myrddraal even more from most people than his disguise made necessary anyway, but the borderlander had just laughed in his deep baritone. His friend had not only adopted it, he had made the name his badge of honour.

"Scouting ahead," Tarmion yelled back, pushing his boots deeper into the ground to find steady ground to put his full weight behind the stuck wheel. "He says the horses tend to shy away from him, and that he'd be no good making the animals more restless than they already are."

"Heh, that's also a way not to get wet," Mellen snorted. "Blood and bloody ashes, the bloody water's freezing me balls off!" he growled.

"Tell me about it," Tarmion chuckled, but his fingers already felt a bit numb.

The water was not yet ice-cold, but it was late autumn, and it already had an icy bite even for those who did not stand in it up to their chests.

The wagon driver ahead gave his horses the whip, and with their combined effort the wagon turned free. Tarmion went after it, helping to others push it the rest of the way.

Mellen followed him and shouted from behind.

"Where do we go from here?"

"We'll look for work in the eastern borderlands, or maybe Murandy. I heard they are almost always warring among themselves there," he shouted over his shoulder. Pictures flashed by in his mind, scorched cities, completely silent plains on which the dead lay slayn and butchered, men and Trollocs alike, with ten thousand crows quietly feasting on the corpses. He saw the world itself moan when untold powers ripped oceans and continents apart, and he heard Caraan Tureed's mad laughter that made his skin crawl.

"... for the winter!" Mellen responded, but the vision had drowned the beginning of what the older man had said.

"What did you say?" he yelled once more, shaking off the vision, and Mellen drove his mare closer.

"I said we'll have to make camp soon after that. For winter, I mean. We can't do much travelling during the winter months. The same counts for business," he added while scratching his scrubby chin.

Mellen's adaption to their new life had come as somewhat of a surprise to Tarmion, most likely because he had a rather clichéed idea of an innkeeper as an unwavering cornerstone of a community. But the stocky innkeep and his wife had embraced the new life, with Mellen taking up a high position in their somewhat unofficial rank structure.

And he had a point, Tarmion realized. They would have to settle down, at least for the harshest winter months. There were no sieges – or wars in general – being fought during that time of the year, and they could not survive the winter in tents when temperatures fell below the freezing point.

"We'll travel and work for the rest of the month," he decided. "We should be in Murandy by then. There we'll find a place to stay for winter."

"Good," Mellen adjusted his steel cap and pulled his dry cloak around him once his feet felt solid ground beneath them again. "I'll tell Yurion and the boys to scout ahead the day after tomorrow. We should celebrate Amaetheon tomorrow."

Undetected by the men and women that drove their horses and wagons through the ford below, a rider watched them intently from between the trees of the forest that ended on the western ridge. He was a tall man, six feet and a half at least, muscular, with a hard face and close-cropped brown hair. His piercing brown eyes often reminded those that rode with him of a hawk searching for prey, and his rough hands bore the signs of years of practice with sword and shield and lance.

The looking glass he used was a loan of his commander, a precious item that the otherwise so physical man handled with greatest care. He had found out early on that light reflecting on the lens could give his position away. Steadying himself against the trunk of a tall oak while holding the looking glass with one hand and shielding it with the other, the hawkish eyes followed the two central wagons in the column, each drawn by four horses and pulled and pushed by half a dozen men. On those, long rectangular beams spotted with black iron, large sacks made from oiled cloth, and long and thick ropes were being transported. The pieces did not interest the man, nor did his commander care for them, but the machine that arose from those pieces had drawn their interest.

Part of him was curious, yes, eager to see it in action, but he knew his orders, and following them was something he did almost as instinctively as he breathed. Carefully he placed the looking glass back into a padded pouch and lead his horse deeper into the woods, climbing across rotting trunks and cutting through the underbrush until he was back on the main road again, heading west.

Driving the spurs into his mount's flanks, the brown coat he wore flapped back and revealed the immaculate white tunic with the golden sun at its centre. Lieutenant Rogam Dainar of the Children of Light had to report to his commander.

Amaetheon was a day celebrated in all lands west of the Spine of the World, except the Borderlands. The exact customs differed, ranging from silent mourning in Cairhien to festivals in the streets in Mayene and Ebou Dar, but all had in common that the day at the watershed between fall and winter was spent in remembrance of the dead.

They had lit a large bonfire to illumine the way into the palms of the Creator for their spirits.

It had been a quiet feast. Quieter even for Tarmion, for he had nobody to mourn or pray for. Seeing families embracing each other, bringing up fond memories of loved ones that had passed on he felt _empty_. As much as no past was a gift that opened so many doors and opportunities, it also was the past that often defined humans.

'They have to memory of grandparents, siblings, friends to celebrate,' he thought bitterly. 'All I have is a cackling madman, a scared child and a howling mob of damned souls haunting my dreams.'

The day passed by quietly, with even the usual sounds of camp life appearing subdued and weaker than usual. He ate his dinner in solitude, as Zath was out, ranging through the woods and the surrounding countryside, always watchful, always guarding themselves against danger.

With the sun sinking behind the horizon came dark grey clouds and cold autumn rain against whose cold the two copper braziers in his tent fought a loosing battle. Its interior reminded him of the stories about great explorers and generals he had heard people tell among camp fires and in taverns, with dark chests laden with treasuries, tables filled with maps and papers and weapons and armour resting on a wooden stand. Tarmion loved maps. They were windows to reality just as much as they were guides to opportunities. On a map, he could be everywhere, in every country of the known world. He could command armies, shape borders, build and destroy cities or even whole nations. Maps awakened the child in him – and the adventurer.

But today, he did not feel like exploring the world. Tired and cold he crawled under his furs and blankets, but sleep did not come easily.

His dreams had been more vivid as of late. He could not remember much of them once he awoke, and even that faded quickly, but he knew Caraan Tureed was in them, a picture of composure very much unlike the one he had come to know. It made him feel restless, hunted, reluctant to go to sleep at night. He kept his self-doubts to himself. He could not afford to seem weak in front of his companions.

"I had a bad dream," a weak voice ripped him from his thoughts.

Marisa stood in the opening of his tent, her hair a mess. She looked as if she had cried. Tarmion had never seen her like that. He rose from his camp bed and drew her in, putting his furs around her. Together, they sat down on the cot, and Tarmion tentatively put his arm around her.

Marisa shook herself, and he withdrew it. The furs slipped from her shoulders, and she took his hand in hers and drew his arm around her back. Tarmion placed the furs carefully over both their shoulders, and Marisa rested her curly head on his shoulder. She was cold, he realized, and drew the furs closer around the two of them. His head softly rested on hers, and after a few moments, Marisa sighed faintly, as if a weight had fallen from her shoulders.

After a few silent moments, his other hand started caressing her hair while his head rested on hers.

"It's all right now. I'm here for you."


	12. Of Warders, Whitecloaks and Waystones

**Chapter 12**

**Of Warders, Whitecloaks and Waystones**

**South of the Jehennah Road and the Village of Tallan in Altara**

**The Third Week of Nesan, 993 N.E. (New Era)**

"It's five days to the crossroads at Fyall," the youngster named Marek Reen explained as he drove his mare forward. "I've been there before. It's a big town, the biggest I've ever seen," he continued as he steered his horse besides the ones of Aryman and Tarmion. "Four thousand people live there, maybe even five!"

Both men only pretended to listen to the young man. Marek was a vagabond who had joined them two days after they had crossed the River Boern in Ghealdan, a pickpocket in truth, even a good looking one. Aryman knew his type. Two or more women in every village he came through who believed all his little lies, and twice as many fathers who wanted nothing so much as to get their hands around his throat. People like Marek Reen invariably meant trouble at some point, but they came around a lot, and that made them invaluable to people like themselves.

"Walls, twice as high as me on my horse, and wooden watch towers behind them," he prattled on while the grey-haired Taraboner drew his thick woollen cloak tighter and lowered his head by an inch.

They rode against the icy wind tugging at their clothes, biting in their eyes. It had gotten a lot colder during the past weeks, with the last vestiges of sunny autumn vanishing with the heavy rain and first hard nightly frosts. Two weeks ago the first snow had fallen, covering the countryside with a thin, white blanket. It had melted again, for the ground had not yet fully frozen. Aryman thanked the creator for that as it had allowed them to set up camp for the winter.

The 'Jehennah Road', also named by some the 'Lugard Road', most likely depending on how far from each of the cities the one using one name lived, was wide enough for two wagons and two riders at the same time, winding itself in long arches along the feet of the rolling hills to the north like a man-made border of hard-pressed gravel and dust and mud. North of it lay miles and miles of sparsely populated downs, groves of gnarled white birch trees and small streams meandering into silent moorlands, enveloped by the impassable ridge of Garen's Wall and the floods of the river Manetherendrelle. It was an empty realm, its towns and villages long since gone, retaken by nature and ground into dust and ruin by war and the merciless passage of time. _Farashelle_ the nation that had once called these lands its own had been called, Aryman knew, but not even scholars nowadays knew where its capital and throne had once stood. It had vanished into darkness, and only animals and crippled birch trees had come to replace it.

Not for the first time Aryman felt a deep sense of loss.

He considered himself a well-read man, something he had come to value only after the self-indulgent times of his youth were long since gone. His father had been a harsh master, but he had tried so very hard to equip his son for this life, and Aryman had done so little to repay him for that. Instead of thanking the old man, he had stolen himself away during the night, lusting for adventure, lusting for acknowledgement, duelling and whoring and drinking in the streets and taverns and brothels of Tanchico. And when his father had confronted him, he had saddled his horse and taken his sword and ridden off to Illian to become a blade master and thought he had been brave to do so. In truth, he had just run away from becoming a decent man, from taking over responsibility, but that had only dawned on him after the Aiel War had drowned the fires of his youth in the blood of the thousands he had seen die. As a blade master, he had ruefully returned home only to find his estate sold, his title gone and his father's tomb. Of grief he had died, their former servants had said. Grief about a son he had presumed lost.

He felt a knot in his stomach tighten, thinking about his past. No, he had brought shame on all his family, but he remembered the schooling he had been given and had abhorred then. And lately, he felt the insights it had allowed him to gain heavy on his shoulders. The world was in decline. The hints were subtle: an overgrown landmark here, the ruins of farmstead there, knowledge gathered from an old book, maps showing cities and kingdoms that had withered away like flowers in autumn.

Twenty-four new nations had emerged from the _Hundred Years War_. Ten of these had fallen into decline and had been destroyed or abandoned, and he was convinced by now that others would follow. Aryman was a widely-travelled man. It was one of the few things he really called his qualities, and it were the observations on his travels which had cemented his gloomy outlook. There were so many white spaces on maps nowadays. Where had all the people gone? Where had it all gone wrong?

They rode through Tallan, a village of roughly forty houses and one inn, the "Queen's Honour". Smoke rose from faded red brick chimneys sticking out like stumps from thatched roofs and others made from tarred wooden shingles. Sheep bleated on the yellow grass meadows behind the village while a lone hawk wheeled above high above the village. There were only few people outside in the biting wind, and those watched them warily as their wagon train rolled past them. Armed men meant trouble, and the village elders had been everything happy with Tarmion's decision to make camp for winter in the vicinity of their homes.

Altara had a monarch, Queen Tylin, an older, yet graceful woman, Aryman had been told, but like with so many other nations her power hardly extended beyond the capital. Like most other people with even the smallest bit of education he held the Whitecloaks in no high esteem, but unlike Tylin, the fanatic military order actually did control all the lands the maps marked as _A M A D I C I A._

Marek Reen was still prattling on about where he had been and how Fyall was an insurmountable fortress made by Ogier in the Age of Legends, but the furrowed brows and determined look on Tarmion Genda's face showed him that their leader also was not listening but thinking. Reen believed he was a dandy, wearing fine woollen clothes, always being washed and clean-shaven, wearing his wide-brimmed hat, but unlike the two noblemen they had met in Ghealdan some weeks ago, Marek Reen lacked the class. It was a good ploy to get into the beds and between the thighs of young daughters of the people living alongside the Jehennah Road.

Wrapped in their grey cloaks, the men took the road to the east and drove their horses forward. There was little other traffic on the Jehennah Road these days, but that was to be expected with the coming of winter. Most merchants tried to do their business in all the months but the ones between Nesan and Jumara. Ten wagons and a hundred armed men in grey rode to Fyall. To their north and south Tallan's fields and meadows spread out, divided by brown thorny hedges and low river rock walls. Behind them, northwards, came the downs, while to the south the central woodlands of Altara went further than the horizon.

"...and then I jumped over the miller's back, darted through the door and hopped into the saddle of Songspirit!" Marek laughed and shook his head.

The gaunt sword master had no idea why the boy thought his boasts would be of any interest to a man who had turned farmers into soldiers and had almost single handedly come up with the idea for the world's most powerful killing machine. Tarmion ignored him, his cheeks red from the cold wind, his eyes anxiously studying the grey sky, and then a gust caught Marek's elaborate hat and blew it away, sending the boy on a hunt after it with a surprised yell. Aryman drove his horse besides the quiet Cairhienan. With the wind and their horses hooves being the only sounds around them, the column rode on towards the Fyall Crossroads.

**The South-East of Ghealdan, near the Border to Altara and Amadicia**

**The First Week of Danu, 993 N.E. (New Era)**

Sheltered by tall, grey and leafless pine trees from unwanted attention the camp lay in a narrow hollow cut in half by a small burbling stream of ice cold and almost sweet water. A double line of sharpened stakes surrounded a hundred triangular shaped, white tents that stood in three straight lines on each side of the small stream, and on each side also a paddock for the many horses had been erected. Usually, there would have been a flagpole in the center of the camp, proudly flying their banner, but their orders had been to remain as hidden as possible.

That caution was a virtue was something the overzealous of his brothers often had to learn, Rogam Dainar thought as he drove his horse through the last line of trees and down the ridge. He wore a brown coat made from thick sheep wool over his tunic and hauberk but had no hat or stocking cap to keep the chill away. Dainar preferred his vision and hearing not to be impeded, and besides that, he _liked_ the cold. Born in Saldea, where the winters were much harsher than this, he had felt the calling when he was seventeen when a lone Child had come to his village to preach of a life dedicated to the fight against the Shadow and and the dispensation of the world with darkfriends.

Twenty years ago, he had sworn the oath in the Fortress of Light in the presence of Pedron Niall. Since then he had fought in skirmishes along the Altaran border, in Ghealdan and in the Aiel War. He had hunted down darkfriends and held the banner of the Children of the Light high where ever he was commanded to ride, rising through the ranks, becoming lieutenant.

There were sentries along the ridge, Children in pairs of two walking the edge of the forest. He saw them a long time before they took notice of him, which he commented with a frown and furrowed brows, something that made his features even more hawk-like than usual.

Two of them finally spotted him and hurried to face him, shields in one hand, drawn blades in the other. Rogam Dainar's mood darkened considerably at that, but he did not let it show. One tenet of the Children was disciplining one's emotions so that the Light might shine on the truth behind anger, love, flatteries and lies. Lieutenant Dainar carried zeal in his heart and convictions, not primarily in his actions. That often had placed him at odds with his more zealous brethren and the questioners of the Hand of Light. The stoic borderlander preferred to act out his convictions on the base of facts.

The sentries came rattling along the treeline, one of them yelling "Who goes there?" while the other one demanded "In the name of the Light, halt!". Rogam stopped his horse and waited until they stood before him, both catching their breath, panting while they were uncertain how to make their final approach.

"Explain yourself!" the taller one of them demanded.

"I hope your convictions of our cause are better than your eyesight, Child Tiom," Dainar responded evenly with a hint of his trademark dry humour.

Both men blinked, then snapped to attention, fumbling and trying to sheath their swords again while their faces turned red, but this time from shame. The smaller one, a stocky man going by the name of Jerren, cleared his throat and bowed his head.

"Begging your pardon, Lieutenant Dainar, we did not realize it was you. May the Light shine on you," he added hastily.

"May it shine on you, too, Jerren. Tell Captain Halgorad I will report to him immediately."

The stocky soldier saluted stiffly and ran towards the tents, and Dainar centered his hawk's eyes on Tiom, who tried to stare blankly in a stiff position of attention.

"If I ever catch you again off your guard while you are on sentry duty, I will see to it that you are lashed," Dainar stated coldly. "Your task is to watch these woods, not to just walk around its edges. Negligence of one's discipline leads one onto dark paths, Tiom. Think about these words, Child. May you walk in the Light."

He drove his horse down the slope, into the camp. Green recruits, he thought dispassionately. They would need to be drilled more before he would rely on them instinctively. A third of the Children riding with them had taken the oath just this year.

Pedron Niall often commanded hundredships of recruits to raid across the borders into Altara and Ghealdan to by baptised by fire. Both nations' royal courts held little sway over their lands, and the nobles' forces those raiding parties battled seldom had the strength or drill to seriously endanger those Children. For them it meant valuable experience they needed once the Light called on them to battle against the Shadow, and for Pedron Niall and the Lord Captains it was a way to screen the ranks for men with the necessary zeal, skill and initiative to be sponsored into positions of command.

He found Pedric Halgorad in his tent, together with Jaynar Elorim. The red shepherd's crook below the sunburst on his tunic marked the man as member of the Hand of Light, a questioner, even though nobody would ever call him that to his face. He was the polar opposite of the officer: where Pedric Halgorad was sturdy, bordering even on plump, sporting a thick and long black beard and mane interspersed by streaks of grey, Elorim was small and gaunt, measuring hardly more than five feet and a hand, his face and head clean-shaven, his eyes fiery with devotion. He frightened Rogam, and not many people could claim that of themselves.

"Captain Halgorad, Inquisitor Elorim, may the Light shine on you both," he entered the tent and saluted. "I come to report on the travelling folk and their stone throwing machine."

"Ah, Dainar, the Light shine on you," Halgorad welcomed him jovially, the two golden knots of rank on his cloak shaking with his girth. As the third son of a house of Amadicia's largely powerless nobility his father had sent the man to the Children in his youth, primarily to get him out of the family's succession. His limited zeal, however, was more than balanced by Jaynar Elorim. Indeed, where the Captain's convictions in Dainar's eyes failed, the Inquisitor overdid things. But the Light balanced all things beneath the sky.

"Why are you not wearing the white and the sun, Lieutenant Dainar?" the Inquisitor demanded to know sharply.

Instead of answering him directly, Rogam Dainar started to unbutton his coat to reveal the white tunic with the flaring sunburst at its centre. He did it as a show of respect towards Captain Halgorad, and because he now was back among his own.

"I was ordered not to be seen," Dainar responded free of any emotion. "Exposing myself for what I truly am would not have allowed me to fulfil my orders."

"Dainar's a good soldier," the barrel-chested captain grumbled while raising an eyebrow at the inquisitor. "Good soldiers show initiative to get their missions done. Isn't that one of your most repeated sermons, Jaynar? That the end justifies the means?"

"Very well," Jaynar Elorim said while his eyes and posture said the opposite, "what news do you bring, lieutenant?"

"I have followed the Ghealdaners eastwards on the Jehennah Road. They have set up camp for winter a good fortnight's ride from here. When I set out to report my findings, a large group of them was heading further east. I questioned some people in the village inn of Tallan, which is close to their camp. It seems part of the Ghealdaners want to offer their services to an Altaran lordling before winter truly sets in," he stood straight, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword with the other held stiffly behind his back while he reported.

"And the machine?" the Elorim asked impatiently.

"They have it with them, Inquisitor. They have dismantled it and transport it on two wagons."

"And you are sure it is a machine, and not some devilry manifested by the work of a Tar Valon witch?" the inquisitor asked doubtfully.

"I am rather certain that it is a purely man-made machine. Elaborate and powerful, but as man-made as a crossbow, Inquisitor Elorim," he answered truthfully. "I passed by their trek without being recognized, and could spot no woman matching the description of an Aes Sedai."

The man with the red shepherd's crook on his tunic tipped his finger impatiently on the map on the table in front of him. To Dainar the inquisitor _always_ seemed to be too impatient.

"Well, they are cunning, those witches," he muttered darkly. "They have ways to cheat the eyes of even the most righteous among us. You not seeing one does not mean none were there!" he shot him a reprimanding glance.

"No, it does not," Lieutenant Dainar conceded, but he kept his further doubts to himself.

Like all Children of the Light, Dairan believed any use of the One Power to be the work of the Dark One and all Aes Sedai to be darkfriends. Unlike some, however, Rogam Dairan did not suspect an Aes Sedai under every skirt. He sometimes wondered whether those men had crawled out from under a stub of a tree instead of being born from a mother. Dairan was a genuine believer in their cause, but he also was a soldier, and a man. He knew there were things to be found in a woman's embrace that no zeal and no sermon could cancel out.

But, as he used to say, the Light balanced all things beneath the sky. And soldier that he was, he could simply see no reason why a Tar Valon witch would join with or secretly lead a group of siege crafters through Ghealdan and Altara. Alas, it was not his place to disagree with an inquisitor.

"I agree we have to be vigilant," he added in an almost reconciliatory voice.

"And I have no doubts that you will," the captain intervened levelly, but there almost was a hidden edge to his tone when he addressed the inquisitor. "Lieutenant Dainar is one of the most experienced and reliable men I have served with for our cause, Jaynar. He's fought against the Aiel and has stood his ground in a dozen other battles and dozens of skirmishes. How many battles have you seen, Jaynar?"

"Are you doubting my commitment?" Anger flared in the inquisitor's eyes, and Rogam could see the captain pale a tiny bit behind his bushy beard and heavy brow ridge. Handling inquisitors was like walking on eggshells.

"No, I am not. I am doubting your military _experience_. That's why it'll be the best if you go with Lieutenant Dainar," he allowed himself a thin smile that almost vanished behind his facial hair. "Talk to these people – the ones that have the machine. That way you can also make sure whether they are darkfriends or not. After all, who'd be more qualified for that than a member of the Hand of Light?"

Their eyes met in a silent challenge, but after a moment of hesitation the inquisitor nodded in agreement. Halgorad shifted his attention back to the lieutenant.

"Lieutenant, take a small unit, say, twenty men, with you. See if those people can be reasoned with, find out first hand if they walk in the Light. And protect Inquisitor Elorim. These are your orders. I will send a report to Amador and follow you in full strength once I have received an answer."

Dainar assumed Captain Halgorad was simply happy about the opportunity to be rid of the inquisitor for a while. It was a notion Rogam Dainar almost could sympathize with. Almost. It was normal to have the members of the Hand of Light staring down one's back. It was part of being a Child of the Light. Those who did not have the strength to live with that should not have had chosen this life in the first place. It was not as if men who were soldiers with their hearts and souls would not easily find employ at any court on the continent.

"I can ride in half an hour," Dainar stated flatly.

"No, you _cannot_, lieutenant," Halgorad reprimanded him gruffly. "You need a fresh horse, and a rest. Dismissed!"

**South of the Jehennah Road and the Village of Tallan in Altara**

**The First Week of Danu, 993 N.E. (New Era)**

Thick snowflakes softly fell from a grey and white sky, covering the barren land and grey forests of Altara with a white blanket almost a hand high. It was not cold, not truly cold, Zath thought as he prowled around between the grey trunks of winter oaks and tall acorns with broad but empty treetops. He had an arrow notched to his curved short bow.

"Nice shot!"

Zath whirled around, searching for the source of that voice, a fresh arrow already drawn from his quiver. Behind the mask, his black eyes darted through the woods, looking, searching – and to his astonishment, finding nothing.

"Quite the hunter you are," the voice teased him with a giggle, then the speaker sighed and called out: "Up here!"

Jumping a step backwards, he put his head back and stared at the leafless acorn in front of him. There was a girl with a double-curved longbow in the branches halfway up the tree, smiling down on him. She was clad in brown buckskin trousers and a tunic made from grey and brown and half a dozen different shades of green cloth, and a similarly made cloak that hid her hair and half her face.

"I... did not see you up there," Zath acknowledged grudgingly, earning himself more giggling.

"That was the point, you wool-head," the girl laughed. She had a clear, melodic voice.

Crawling off a set of branches, she pushed herself off the trunk into the air and landed gracefully and soft-footed on the snow directly besides him, rolling herself off and getting on her feet again in one fluent motion. He could see herself better now. Zath, to his eternal surprise, felt himself blushing behind the crimson cherrywood mask as he mustered her and lowered his already drawn bow.

The jump had pushed back her hood and revealed long and smooth blond, almost white hair. Her sun-tanned face marked her as a southerner, and blue, mischievous eyes challenged him while white teeth presented a teasing but open smile. Her cheeks were red from the cold and the wind up in the tree. She was almost as tall as he was, certainly six foot and some, taller than any woman in the camp he had noticed. Her cloak reminded him of a warder's cloak he had once seen on a raid in the borderlands, even though it was only normal wool. Beneath it he caught a glimpse of an embroidered leather jacket and a long knife and a quiver full of red-feathered arrows on a belt. She was older than he had first thought: a young woman in her early twenties.

"When you are done looking, shall we go and get the deer you shot?" she quipped in her bright voice and pointed into the woods to their north.

"Yes, of course," he answered sheepishly, feeling the heat in his cheeks. Damn, you are an idiot, Zath Talaka, she scolded himself.

They found the deer fifty paces away. She had been right: it _had_ been a nice shot. The huntress knelt in the snow besides the dead animal and unsheathed her knife. It was a long, curved blade of dark, almost black steel.

"If you go and get a bough to carry it with, I'll gut it in the meantime," she offered Zath.

The halfman looked at the blood his fatal arrow had drawn as it trickled into the snow and coloured it in dark tones of red and black before reacting to what she had said.

"You'll gut the deer?" he asked incredulously, and almost instantly wanted to bite his tongue off.

"I wouldn't be hunting in the woods if I didn't know how to handle my quarry," she scoffed, but there still was the amused flicker in her eyes that made him feel... queasy. She turned the deer around and began to open it up with practised cuts, settling the matter there and then.

When Zath returned with a suitable bough she was almost done, her hands and forearms soaked in red. She had pushed back the sleeves of her tunic to her shoulders, baring long, muscular and sun-tanned arms. When she saw him standing there and watching her, it was her turn this time to blush, if only for a second before she started to clean the blood and gore from her hands in the snow. Together, they used pieces of rope to tie the deer to the bough, then started on their way back to the camp.

The snow had stopped falling sometime after he had shot his arrow. He could not truly say when for his mind was filled with strange feelings that made it hard for him to focus his thoughts.

They cleared the tree line. The great central forests of Altara had been cleared here for miles, making way for fields, meadows and fruit tree plantations that all lay empty and barren under the cover of these first winter snows. Half a mile away their winter camp stood on a narrow hilltop, and a further mile to the north the smoke from Tallan's chimneys rose into the clearing sky. An icy eastern wind drove the clouds towards Ghealdan, along the Jehennah Road and over the Boern Ford, revealing a pale sun hanging low in a similarly pale blue sky.

The snow had fallen deeper here, making the white crust over the country almost a foot thick. Even though they both were tall it slowed them down and made walking and carrying a cumbersome task, teetering from one foot to another like herons in a pond.

"You name is Zath, isn't it?"

She had pulled her hood down over her red ears again and turned her head so he could hear her.

"Yes, it is," he answered, adding, "I can hear you even if you talk against the wind."

Light, what was it with that woman? He was fumbling for words like the worst kind of woolhead. For once he was glad he wore a mask and she could not see his face.

"What is your name?" he finally asked, almost stuttering, his embarrassment growing by the minute.

"Light, look, it can talk!" she quipped, raising her voice as if she was talking to an audience, then stopped and turned on her heels. "I'm Arianna Malaidhrin," she announced more seriously then, and they continued.

"I've never seen your face," she remarked after they had walked silently for a while.

"Few people have," Zath replied evasively, but - as if his tongue was running ahead of his mind – he added, "but maybe I'll show you some day."

"Well, I wager you're far better looking than you think. Maybe you're even cute," she teased him.

Zath could not help himself but laugh about that, not knowing what to make of it.

"Are you always this direct?" he asked quite flabbergasted.

"It usually gets me what I want," she answered confidently with a shrug.

Their winter encampment was almost a little fortress. Located on the end of a narrowing ridge, a palisade a hundred and twenty paces in diameter, made from barely worked trunks, surrounded half a dozen hastily timbered shacks for their animals. Wagons stood alongside the inner side of the wooden wall like a second palisade, while a tall, high-peaked longhouse made from trunks made to fit into each other and covered by a thatched roof dominated the centre. It had taken all two hundred people's hands to conjure the camp up out of thin air in about a week. They had worked day and night to get it all done before the ground became too hard with winter frost. It was simple, but it would suffice to keep them alive.

Their return drew only a few stares as they passed through the camp's 'gate', which in truth was nothing but a gap in the palisade that could be opened and closed by pushing one of the more solid wagons they owned into it. A handful of men wrapped in furs and grey cloaks guarded the breach, armed with shields and spears and sword while others stood watch atop the wagons with bows and quivers full of arrows. He knew them all by name by now, and their greetings were brief.

They passed by the wood-framed, roofed over dung heaps the camp had built on Tarmion's insistence. He had not explained what for, but for most of the people here his word carried enough weight on its own to not ask too many question.

Arianna placed the weight of their quarry from one side to the other and stopped halfway between the gate and the great hall. She rubbed her shoulder and grimaced.

"I can take it alone from here," Zath offered her calmly. He could see the conflict in her blue eyes, the conflict between pride and pragmatism. She grimaced once more as she rubbed her sore shoulder and nodded. Pragmatism would win this time.

"Thank you," she meekly answered with a sigh of relief, then gave him a wry grin. "I guess I'll see if I can get a hot bath, or if all else fails, some mulled cider."

He managed to respond with a chuckle and a nod, but it felt... dissatisfying. Pulling himself together, he found the courage – and words – to address her before she vanished in the veritable ant heap that the camp was.

"Let's go hunting together some time soon, shall we?"

Her face lit up in surprise and something else which he could not truly read, and to his delight she nodded.

"See you soon, Zath Talaka," she said in her incredibly melodic voice and waved him goodbye.

He watched her go and was surprised at himself, surprised and worried about the new emotions he felt inside himself. His eyes followed her white-blond hair and her gait, and he found everything he saw to be... beautiful.

A heavy hand slapping against his back broke the charm of the moment and pulled him back into the real world. Mellen stood behind him with a worried expression. Only reluctantly letting go of the strange feeling, he turned his attention to the burly former innkeeper.

The man's scrubby bearded face was half-hidden beneath an earthen-coloured scarf and the leather-framed helmet he had become so fond of wearing. A studded vest of hard-boiled leather, gleaming with the oil used to keep the material from getting brittle, thick grey woollen clothes and a sword in a scabbard completed the picture. Truth be told, he was no longer as burly as he used to be, hard edges shining through in his formerly round face, fat having turned to muscles in his arms and chest. Mellen Ollon trained daily, and he trained hard, and that served him as much as it did serve the other men. After all, if a fat innkeeper close to his fiftieth nameday could do that good, younger and more untiring men should be able to do at least as well, should they not?

"What is it?" Zath asked with a slightly angered tone in his voice.

Mellen either had not heard it or had chosen to ignored it. He nodded towards the breach.

"Trouble," he frowned, motioning him to move along with him. "You remember how we decided to let the men go to the village inn from time to time?" It was a rhetorical question, and Mellen continued directly. "Well, seems this has created it's own set of headaches. There's a delegation of village elders at the breach, some young women in tow."

The masked half-myrddraal groaned. He could already see where this was going.

Mellen interpreted his reaction correctly.

"Exactly what I thought. Now they demand that the men who've 'violated' their virgin daughters either 'do the right thing' and marry them, or be turned over for justice."

They stopped behind the breach where ten guards stood, opposing a village delegation of just as many men, lead by their mayor. Behind them, a handful of women wrapped in furs and thick cloaks waited nervously. At least one of them was clearly pregnant. Zath pointed at her, and Mellen nodded.

"Either infants grow abnormally fast in northern Altara, or they are trying to rip us off," he quipped.

Zath frowned beneath the mask and crossed his arms before his chest.

"How many of them are truly pregnant, and how many of those are pregnant from _our_ boys?" He had seen the maps, and the Jehennah Road was the prime commercial East-West connection in the southern part of the continent. At least the obviously pregnant girl had gotten that way from one of the many wagon drivers or merchant guards who would waste no opportunity to lie with a willing village wench.

"Truth is, they most likely've realized just how much copper our boys are spending in that taverns, and have come to get a lot more of it. Even if some have fathered children, do you really think the people of Tallan want them to settle down there? They can hardly stand us as it is."

"Aye, it's an extortion scheme," Mellen agreed.

The debate with the delegation from Tallan was brief and did little to mend the differences or to put oil on troubled waters. The villagers demanded the 'fathers' to marry their 'violated' daughters, to which the Grey Companions demanded they name names and produce witnesses, something they did not but in one case. As Mellen had rightly predicted, they then called for a rather large sum of silver to be handed over to them so _they_ could provide for the other young 'mothers', which Mellen in a polite but stern tone rejected.

When they finally left for the village again, the innkeeper-turned-warrior watched them go with a worried expression on his face.

"No good will come from this," he muttered sourly.

**The Jehennah Road, Halfway between Tallan and the Fyall Crossroads**

**The First Week of Taisham, 994 N.E. (New Era)**

The siege had almost been over when they had arrived, with both sides having resorted to wary negotiations in the light of the beginning of winter. The attackers had not had the food and winter equipment to hold the pressure for much longer, and the magistrate of Fyall Crossroads was running low on food himself and had feared an outbreak of the stained fever since his people had had to resort to eating rotting food. Aryman, Tarmion and the rest of their one hundred man detachment of the Grey Companions had broken up those negotiations with their arrival, and almost as quickly had broken through the gates of the 'town'.

The 'great town' of Fyall, as Marek had ostentatiously called it, had been a hundred and twenty wooden or whitewashed houses, none higher than two stories, and only a dozen of them sporting red tiled roofs that indicated a certain level of wealth of the owner. In truth, it had been a large village, grown rich by virtue its location. A palisade and three gates shielded by round stone towers had lay behind a swampy moat scarcely two handful of paces wide. It had been easy work on their part, and a bloody butcher's task on the part of those poor souls who had to take or hold the breach.

The coin they had earned there had not been plenty, but it had been a warm trickle on their already well-filled coffers. There were villages lined up along the Jehennah Road like pearls on a string, and they had stopped at each to use their newly-earned money to buy provisions and even living animals. The prices had been horrendous, but that was to be expected in the middle of the winter.

Still, all in all their way back so far had been almost painfully uneventful. They rose at first light and made camp at dawn, with the little time they did not spend on the road being occupied with the necessary chores to keep the camp alive and weapons' practice for all, which he lead. Sleep near the blazing fires they lit came easy, and yet the long times on the road made them all tired. It was times like these, when Aryman really had nothing to do but wait that he found it hard to keep his mind away from wandering off to the malicious suggestions that his body produced, that he just might take sip of wine, just one mug full of ale, just a nice liquor to get his stomach working after lunch or dinner. He had not given in to them, and, the Creator willing, never would do so again.

To get his mind away from those thoughts, he initiated mock battles, lead hunting parties into the woods to the road's south while the trek moved on and commanded outriders to scout ahead (and to their rear) to warn them of possible dangers. None of those riders had ever come back with a warning or the report of something out of the ordinary – until now.

A double column of two dozen horses approached them from the west as they were setting up camp for the night. Tarmion watched them come with a deepening frown, standing on a wagon's coach box. The immaculate cloaks and white surcoats flapped with the wind while the setting sun's rays mirrored on their polished, conic helmets.

"Whitecloaks."

They stopped in front of the corral. A tall, stoic soldier and a gaunt man with glaring eyes and the dress of a questioner lead them. Aryman had heard of the men the Hand of Light attracted, yet had never seen one. Still, studying him, he found his notions confirmed. The Companions had been summoned and were manning the breaches between the wagons, armed but with their weapons lowered or sheathed.

The inquisitor's disapproval of what he saw was obvious in his face, and for a long moment silence lay heavy on the scene. With a start, Tarmion jumped from the coach box and bowed politely.

"Greetings," he intoned. "May the Light shine on you all. May I inquire what leads the Children so far away from the Fortress of Light?"

"We have been following rumours for some months now, and facts for some weeks," the taller of the two, the soldiers, stated in a hollow voice that was devoid of almost every trace of emotion. His eyes, however, were those of a hawk: alive, hard and piercing. A sharp glance from the smaller man made him shut his lips together into a thin, bloodless line. "We know that you own something, some kind of machine that gives you the power to breach any wall you want. We are here for that machine," the inquisitor continued in his stead. He had a hard, cutting voice, used to give commands, and more so, used to be obeyed.

Tarmion looked over his shoulder and shook his head.

"We are not interested in selling it, nor the way it can be built."

"I am not here to buy this wretched piece from you, peasant," he snarled. "Give it to me, and you will walk in the Light and your name may be held high in the halls of the Fortress of Light," he added in a slightly more amiable tone that did nothing to balance his former insult.

Tarmion barked a harsh laughter that was taken up by the men.

"That's not how these things work, inquisitor."

"This is a business," Aryman remarked dryly. "You want something, you _offer_ something. Though I doubt you could pay us adequately, even if you had much coin with you," he scoffed, not even raising his eyes to meet theirs while he carefully sipped on his hot tea. "It _is_ literally worth its own weight in gold to us."

"So you decline to give aid to the Children of the Light? Why?" his voice became dangerously low. "Do you no longer walk in the Light and supports its righteous servants? Do you stand in the Shadow of the Dark One?" he hissed angrily.

The camp lapsed into a tensioned silence. Being a darkfriend was no accusation any man took lightly.

"Does fear of the Light hold your tongue?" Anger made the Whitecloak's narrow face seem even more pinched.

"Hardly. You have a talent to twist someone's words in his mouth until they suit you," Tarmion replied dangerously calm. "You expect us to give up something that has cost us blood and sweat and tears, something that is unique in the world the Creator made, and you offer us nothing but words and threats in return. So we decline a deal that would give us nothing and you everything, and that makes us into darkfriends?" he asked with a mix of suppressed anger and amusement.

"You should leave now, Whitecloaks," Aryman said coldly, showing the hilt of his heron-mark sword.

That drew the attention of the soldier, even though his reaction amounted to nothing more than a – surprised – frown.

The inquisitor only watched them all with hate flashing in his eyes.

"Darkfriends do not escape us, no matter how fast their wagons roll and how swift their horses are. We will meet again. You may be sure of it!" He cruelly yanked his horse around and clapped the spurs into his horse's flanks, forcing it back the way they had come. The soldier's eyes lingered on them for a second longer, then he followed the questioner, motioning the men to follow him, still in an orderly two-lined column.

Tarmion, Aryman and the others watched them ride off. The Taraboner swordmaster shook his head and spat out, turning to the men.

"Jareen, Ebron, Hoster! Double the guards for the night. Padran, Norric? Take some men and light fires all around the outer side of the corral. I want everybody to sleep light, and with a weapon nearby! Get to work!"

"Things have just become a lot more complicated," Tarmion muttered, more to himself than to Aryman. "Complicated, and dangerous."

**South of the Jehennah Road and the Village of Tallan in Altara**

**The First Week of Jumara, 994 N.E. (New Era)**

"They're still at their camp on the other side of the road, less than two hundred paces away from the village," Yurion reported stone-faced. "Nearly froze me balls off, but I got close enough to smell what they were cooking for lunch," he snorted. "Lousy guards didn't see me," he spat out.

The Whitecloak detachment had arrived a day after Tarmion and the others had returned from Fyall Crossroads and had stayed close ever since. At first the Companions had tried to simply ignore them. Tarmion did not want to give the Children any opportunity to make them look like the instigators of conflict and had impressed the necessity to be peaceful upon those men who still wanted to visit the "Queen's Honour". Mellen, while not exactly afraid of a fight, had nonetheless supported him with that decision. At first, everything had continued the way it had been before, but soon the Whitecloaks and that inquisitor had started to stir up the villagers against them. The folk of Tallan had been just too eager to oblige them. After rejecting their village elders' demands they saw this as a means to get back at them, and gladly took it.

Two weeks ago, a small group of men from the camp had been attacked and seriously beaten up by the villagers as they tried to enter Tallan's inn. Since then, nobody had left for Tallan any more, except for Marek Reen.

With the situation deteriorating the way it had done, the foppish youth had become their eyes and ears in the village, successfully styling himself as someone who had nothing to do with those Ghealdaner 'darkfriends', and every three days he would ride eastwards, just to turn south after a few miles and lead his horse back to the camp.

"The Dragon's Fang has been seen on at least two doors since I last left," he reported in a - for him - unusually worried tone. "People there are getting nervous, more suspicious. And not only of outsiders like me, but also of other village folk. It's, well, _scary_."

"They can't get their hands on us, so they take what they can get," Aryman commented disdainfully. "Before long, they'll have one half of Tallan at the other's half's throats. I don't like being witness to that."

"Aye," Mellen nodded somberly.

"We don't have much of a choice," Tarmion reminded the men who constituted the Companions' unofficial leadership circle. "We need to rest for the winter, conserve our resources, train the men. The way it is, we won't starve or freeze to death. That being said, we are far more safe here than out on the road. I don't like it either, but there are things we just can't change." He paled a bit as he thought about what would soon happen in Tallan. He had warned against something similar in Katar, which by now seemed as if it had been half a life ago. Shaking off those thoughts, he turned to Aryman.

"I want the men trained, every day. Can't have them idle, not now that the inn's also become hostile territory. I'll join them when ever I can. Zath, Yurion," he turned his head, "I need scouts outside all the time. I don't want to wake up one day and be surrounded by enemies. Observe and report what you and your men can, kill only if it's the only way left. I don't want it to be us who have started this."

He changed his attention to Marek and nodded.

"I appreciate your services, Marek. You have done well. That will not be forgotten. Return to the village, but don't try any heroic antics. Stay safe."

The youth smiled and bowed elegantly before leaving.

Almost as an afterthought Tarmion called after him.

"If you see Ebron, tell him I want the charcoal he's been making filled into barrels."

Motioning he had understood, the foppish pickpocket left for his horse.

Later that day he lay in the Tane's wagon on a cushion of thick blankets and furs. An oil lamp shed some light, and the small iron stove in the corner kept the chill of winter away. Marisa knelt besides him and laughed.

"...and then the bees stung the bull and he went wild! You should've seen that loudmouth scream and cry like a girl," she chuckled. "Best prank me and my friends ever played on that arrogant wool-head. Didn't try to stalk us ever again," she sniffed, and Tarmion had to laugh, too.

"Remind me to never make you angry, will you?" he smiled and pushed himself up, placing a kiss on her cheek.

"Oh, I will," she smiled mischievously and leaned down.

Their mouths met in a passionate kiss, and Tarmion gently pulled her down into his arms, fondling her red hair. His fingers wandered across her body, caressing her, tingling her, making her laugh while her breathing became heavier. When his hand found the spot between her legs she sighed satisfied and drew the blankets over them.

They did not get cold for a long time that night.

The weather during the past days had been that of a dry, icy cold, dry enough for him to keep the door to the shack he had been working in open. The sun was shining outside in a blue sky, and Tarmion was glad he could exchange the stench in the shack with the clean air from outside.

Zath came walking down the slope towards him. A tall, blond woman passed him by. It was only the faintest of touches, but he could see how Zath shuddered and how she gave him a mischievous smile before both of them went on with their chores.

"New friends?" he asked casually, motioning in the woman's direction when Zath stood under the doorframe.

"You don't approve of it, do you?"

Tarmion could see Zath tense, and he soothingly shook his head.

"I'm a bit surprised, that's all. Most people feel queasy around you, and you bloody well know that. Light, I know how _I_ felt when I first looked into your eyes," he shrugged.

"Well, she says directly looking into my eye makes her feel elated, but then I'd call that poetic justice. After all, she makes me feel as if I had butterflies in my stomach every time she looks at me," the halfman grinned wryly. "We danced together at the Feast of Lights."

Considering the fit of laughter Zath had, Tarmion thought he really must have looked more than surprised at his friend's revelation.

"You _danced_?" he finally managed to utter with a start.

"Well, Arianna did most the dancing, I just followed. Wasn't too hard, you know. She lead me, and it was like, well," he stopped, "a bit like being a raven's feather, I guess."

"Light, I'm discovering completely new sides of you, my friend," Tarmion frowned, then chuckled and looked up at him. "I'm glad you've found someone, I truly am," he declared honestly. "I'm sure you two will make the best of it."

"Thank you," Zath answered him after a pause. It sounded relieved.

"Now, what is it that you are doing in here all the time?" he changed the topic, and Tarmion put the scales, instruments and the mortar he had been grinding away. "Some of the men are starting to think you're loosing your mind. Especially those that you have digging in the dung heaps," he added dryly.

Tarmion looked at the dozen oil lamps that lit the shack, and at the same number of high barrels from which a white fluid was trickling through taps into smaller barrels below. Crates full of charcoal and linen bags filled with powdered brimstone acquired at Fyall Crossroads filled the rest of the shack. The stench inside was biting, but one got used to it.

"Tell them I'm experimenting on new ways to make us money," he shrugged, returning his attention to his tools.

"By turning shit into gold?" Zath scoffed, and Tarmion had to chuckle.

"Well, there are some intermediary steps between that, old friend." He filled a dark grey substance from a cup into a mortar, hardly more than a fingertip of it, and took a knife whose blade had been held over the flame of a candle until it was almost red. Tarmion pushed the mortar to the edge of the table, holding the knife over it. "Shield your ears," he commanded, then stuck the knife's edge inside.

A loud, dry crack thundered through the shack, with biting grey smoke rising from the mortar which had been thrown to the ground by the power of the explosion.

"The mixture is rather similar to the one the Fireworkers' Guild uses, I believe. Though they stretch it with other substances to produce the effects and colours that make them so expensive and mysterious," he explained matter-of-factly while Zath tried to gather his thoughts again. Until now, he had though that things like what he had just seen could only be done with the One Power. Tarmion noticed his astonishment and grinned.

"That was an ounce of the powder, Zath. Imagine what you could do with a stone of it, or a barrel full of it?" his smile became wolfish.

"Who would've ever thought that the shit of a hundred horses, cows and pigs would be good for something, eh?"

**The Last Week of Jumara, 994 N.E. (New Era)**

Fate caught up with them on a particularly bright and sunny day in the form of a Whitecloak force nearly four hundred men strong emerging from the west on the Jehennah Road. At noon, a detachment of them came to the camp's boundaries to deliver an ultimatum: to either hand over the siege engine and be given the chance to walk in the light, or to perish as Darkfriends at the hands of the Children of the Light.

As they had already been denounced as darkfriends, the choice had been easy. To be a darkfriend was the same as being sentenced to die in a Whitecloak's eyes anyway. They had just waited for reinforcements to do what that inquisitor had wanted to do since the day they had first met on the road. With grim determination Tarmion and the Companions went to work on their defences when the Whitecloak detachment rode back to their camp.

A considerable tent city had risen on the outskirts of Tallan, the plain white of the tarpaulins almost merging with the hard-pressed white snow all around it. Row and row of tents stood in straight lines, almost until the edge of a small fir tree grove to the west. Guards patrolled the perimeter, but they were so full of confidence that they did their duty mechanically, not really paying attention to their surroundings. The Ghealdaner darkfriends sat bottled up in their camp, the village was under control, so what was there that could happen?

The sun hung deep in the sky, an orange-red fiery ball almost touching the horizon, turning the camp into a sea of twilight into which the grey-clad figure dove into. For all their rhetoric, Whitecloak camp life was little different to what he had seen during his life as far as soldiers' camps were concerned - and there were so many sweet shadows to hide in.

He had not immersed himself in them for months, thus the rush of adrenalin, of clear-cut colours, of pure, raw power pulled him in like a tidal wave. Smiling widely, he jumped from one dark spot to another, making his way deeper into the camp of the self-professed fighters against the Dark One. He had to laugh at that notion. It was a deep, low, guttural laugh, distorted by that one little step that he was out of phase with reality. They would not have survived a week in the borderlands with security like that!

Larger fires crackled in the middle of the tent city, and he stopped at the edge of the twilight they created, backing off into the dark behind a tent where he knelt down and listened. There was a discussion in the larger tent nearby.

"...can't do this at night, Inquisitor Elorim. With all due respect, but we are not thieves and cut throats who kill under the cover of darkness," a deep voice protested disdainfully, only to be cut off by a man who sounded as if every word of his was a slash of a razor blade.

"Your men attack tonight. The orders from the Fortress are plain and clear: kill the darkfriends, retrieve the machine," he responded in a voice that accepted no objections. "Lieutenant, can your men do that?"

There was a moment of hesitation, then a voice devoid of most emotions spoke up.

"It can be done, and there is also some merit in your decision, Inquisitor. The more time we give them to prepare, the harder this will be. Though I am concerned about it, I have to admit. The night belongs to the Dark One. If those people are darkfriends, they may have some unpleasant surprises for us."

"They _are_ darkfriends, and you _wil__l_ overcome them," the man identified as Inquisitor Elorim gave the final command. "Prepare to march once the moon is at its highest."

Zath had heard enough. Silently, he withdrew back to the edge of the camp. A patrol walked right past him, not even noticing him beneath the needles of a fir tree. Like a wraith he darted towards them, his blades dancing in his hands. They never even made a sound. Only their surprised faces stared up at him when the spark of life in their eyes flickered, then died. He smiled beneath the mask as the two bodies slumped softly into the ground, the blood oozing from their wounds, seeming black rather than red in the darkness of the night. He would have liked to even the odds a bit more, but what he had found out was more important by far, he knew. With a sigh, more about what he was about to do than what he had just done, he slipped into the shadows.

Boots made crunching sounds with every step they took across the frozen snow plain, and each and every one of them sounded like a chime to Lieutenant Rogam Dainar. He just hoped the faint breeze that blew across the fields and pulled thick shrouds of mist with it would do a bit to obscure the noises.

At least it was bloody unlikely that they would be seen. I thick fog had come up after the moon had risen, lying ten feet high across the land like a sea made from white wisps. Something in the back of his mind told him that this was rather unusual, but he could not pin the thought down. He was lucky he could see twenty feet ahead.

On his insistence Captain Halgorad had agreed to order the men to wrap white cloth around their conical helmets to not reflect the moonlight, but right now he would have given his left hand for a little bit more of just that. It was hard to command men at night with only whispers, it was nigh impossible to do so without seing none but a handful of them.

He felt the ground slope upwards beneath his feet and knew that he was at the foot of the ridge upon which the darkfriends had made their camp. He could hear men curse under the breath next to him as they staggered onto the rising ground. After a steep climb he abruptly left the cover of the fog and found himself only half a dozen paces from the palisade away. He could not quite put a finger on it, but something _felt_ wrong, activating enough of his instincts to make him tense up and reach for the hilt of his sword. The leather and steel beneath it made him feel better, if only a bit. Careful, he reminded himself, careful. They were darkfriends, the Children's sworn enemies. No devilry was too vile for them.

The mist lay across the land like a thick, white blanket, covering everything between the woods and their own camp. Other men also found their way out of the white blindfold and quietly gathered around him. They had not been detected, and that was a bloody good sign. With hand signs he commanded the men to follow him. Looking down the slopes of the hill, he now could make out the forms of the rest of the force that had come to attack the camp. Forty of four hundred had stayed back at the camp, the rest were in arms and under his direct command, slowly catching up with him.

Carefully, their backs pressed against the palisade, they approached the gate. Torches flickered on poles on each side of the breach in the palisade, and the wagon that served as an impromptu gate was there, but where were the guards?

Reluctantly, soldiers stepped into the torchlight and closer to the wagon.

"Careful!" he growled at the men at the barricade. "Something's not right here!"

But nothing happened. A couple of horses neighed in their shacks, forcing Dainar to clench his teeth, and a cow anxiously roamed in its sheltered shed when figures in white cloaks, their swords drawn, scurried across the camp grounds, but no soul was to be seen. More torches burned on poles, as they had done every night since Dainar and come to Tallan and observed the Ghealdaners. Smoke rose from the chimney and the central round opening in the long hall's thatched roof, and he could hear the faint sound of pots being stirred and fire crackling in the hearths.

He waited until a sizeable force had entered through the camp gate and caught up with him. Their weapons drawn they waited for his command.

"Now!" he yelled, and strong hands tear the two-winged door open.

White shadows stormed into the long hall, and Rogam Dainar with them.

A huge fire burned in the central hearth, filling the whole hall with heat that felt like a thousand flee bites after the long march through the cold. At the centre of the fire Dainar made out the smouldering remains of the machine, the tarred wood burning like tinder. A creaking door in the back of the hall opened and closed with the wind, it's iron handle banging against a copper pot hanging from a piece of rope - and there was nobody in it besides them.

Barrels in all sizes stood all along the sides and central beams of the hall. Dainar saw them, saw and smelled the stench of oil, and saw that while a fire burned in the long hearth, the only living souls in the buildings were theirs. His eyes widened in sudden realization.

"It's a trap!"

**A Mile to the East**

The night was clear and quiet, quiet and clear enough for the small group of men to see and hear the men that just had stormed their former winter camp. The light of torches and the shining arch that the wide open doors to the hall created flickered across the frozen plain and the low hills between them. Shouts and commands could be heard, but the distance made them unintelligible. Small, white figures danced across the snow and atop the wooden palisades that stood tall and black in the moon- and starlight. The fog was beginning to dissipate, white wisps blowing with the soft southern wind towards Tallan and the Jehennah Road.

Tarmion looked to Zath and Azral, then to the column that made its way through the snow in the east. The hooves of their horses had been wrapped into cloth, their wagons had been oiled to make them quieter, and so far the faint had worked. It had been a hard decision, but it had been the only one that they could have made once Zath brought the news of the imminent attack home. They were pushing hard for the road, and they had to. The more miles they got between them and the Whitecloaks, the better. Time was essential.

"Let's give them something to think about," he finally broke the silence on their part and gently nudged the scrawny old fellow.

Azral took his woollen gloves off. His right hand was his good hand - it still had all its fingers. He pointed towards the hall, then snapped his fingers. For the brink of a moment Tarmion thought he could see the spark of a small blue flame above the palm of Azral's hand.

Thunder and flash rolled over them, with a massive pillar of flame blossoming in the west. The widening fireball rose two hundred, three hundred, four hundred feet into the virgin sky. A raging inferno of fire and secondary explosions followed, swallowing almost all of the camp. Flaming debris filled the night sky, some of it sickeningly human-shaped, flailing as it was hurled through the night. The fire had completely consumed the great hall, and the oil and grey powder head done their share in spreading it to the rest of the camp. Everywhere burning patches of oil greedily ate away at the palisades and shacks inside while those Whitecloaks that had come in contact with it rolled around in the snow, trying to put the blaze out. In the centre the flames licked high, fifty feet or more, and in their midst the fire was white, almost blue. The first explosion had sent a heatwave out that had reached even them, and the flames' hunger for air now made the wind freshen up, rushing in with soft howls to feed the inferno.

Azral and Zath both watched it in silent shock while Tarmion found himself observing the devastation with something he could only describe as unsettling satisfaction. After they had watched the scene for minutes, he turned around and followed the rest of the column. It was not over yet.

The Whitecloaks caught up with them at first light. Zath lead his rearguard into a brief clash with their outriders that saw their patrol dead, but he also lost two men doing so. Worse, less than two miles down the road, the main body of their forces was coming closer, three hundred or more horses in hard pursuit.

It was a loosing game. They had tried their best, had gambled, and had been defeated. There was no way a column with wagons and two hundred people, a third of them women and children, could outrun a force riding on purpose-bred, untiring destriers. To the north lay the hills of ancient _Farashelle_, silent, dead, foreboding.

A small detachment of riders appeared on the hills behind them and let loose a flight of arrows. Jareen's horse stumbled and crashed down with a shrill neigh, it's flanks riddled with arrow shafts. Forty riders crashed out of the woods to their south just as the main body of their enemies also reached the hills to the west.

"We can't shake them off!" Ebron's desperate voice thundered through the chaos. A line of lance riders in white surcoats appeared on the hilltop behind them, ready to charge.

"Get to the hilltop! Get to the hills!" Tarmion yelled as loud as he could, but inside he had already resigned. They had gambled, and they had lost. On that one hill, they would make their last stand.

Hastily, they drove their horses and wagons up the frozen hillside. A Whitecloak's horse smashed Jareen as he tried to crawl out from under his dead mount, cleaving his skull in half with a sword. Krug was downed by a flurry of arrows that pinned him against the wagon behind him. They made it, just in time. The Whitecloaks withdrew to regroup, and Tarmion could see why.

The hill was almost perfectly round, ascendable from all sides - and the Whitecloaks began to draw a line all around it. When they were done, they lowered their lances. Tarmion could see the despair on his men's faces, could hear women and children cry and cradle each other - and he could do nothing to mend it.

They came down on them from all sides, accompanied by a hail of arrows. Horon fell, screaming. Greadan slumped from his saddle, an arrow looking out of his eye socket. Others fell, too. Too many of them. Tremors shook the ground as almost four hundred Children of Light charged the circled Companions.

Then there was... _something_, a change that made his flesh crawl and sent the voices in his head into a howling frenzy. Azral had stumbled towards the centre of the hill, the arrow still in his shoulder, blood still trickling from the wound. Marisa was with him, but it was not her his vision focussed on. Azral was pulsing with light, a light that had a dirty, oily shimmer to it and that raised his hackles. Why did nobody else seem to notice that?

Inside his head, Caraan Tureed was raging and raving, battering against the barriers of his mind. Tarmion felt something changing inside, as if a long-withheld flood broke through a dam. It was as if somebody had taken off a filter in front of his senses. Like roots, streams of oily brightness grew into the ground from Azral's hands. His eyes had rolled back, showing only the white now. Marisa was screaming at him, shaking him, but he did not move or react at all. Tarmion could see the individual muscles moving on the charging horses' legs, saw the sweat on the faces of the grim men driving their mounts up the hill, ready to crash into his friends, saw them lowering their lances for the final spans and... the world _shifted_.

**The **_**Good Night's Ride**_** in Lugard, Murandy**

Raucous laughter filled the stuffy common room of the inn. Every chair at every table was taken, and between them four bar maids hurried around, taking orders, exchanging jokes and delivering mugs of ale and wine and plates with bread and cheese and steaming bowls of stew. The smoke of at least a dozen different weeds steamed from pipes, dimming the light the two iron-framed chandeliers and their fifty beeswax candles produced. A suckling pig was roasting on a spit above a central brick rectangle filled with blazing hot charcoal. In a corner, two young men were playing their fiddles ferociously in an effort drown the rest of the tavern's noise.

Usually, a young woman called Susu would be singing and dancing for the patrons, but this was one of the lucky days were the inn was bursting with customers as it was, and it was entirely too loud and crowded for the girl to entertain them.

Duranda Thane, the female innkeeper, watched the common room with a smirk while she cleaned mugs with a piece of cloth. She was a tall and heavyset woman, with a thrusting chin and a hard mouth used to yelling commands at her cook, the stablehands and the bar maids. And, as the owner of one of Lugard's inns commonly used by travellers, merchants and locals alike, she heard quite a lot.

The black-eyed and red-haired woman had long since understood that information also was something one could make into coins, a realization which had over the years made her a lot more wealthy than the plain appearance of the "Good Night's Ride" would have one believe.

"Well, there is the usual squabbling in Ghealdan, but that is nothing special," she shrugged and placed a mug of cold ale in front of the man sitting at the other side of the counter.

He listened closely to her words. Andra he called himself, and she had only seen him twice in her life before. He travelled a lot. A good looking fellow, but he had a hard, almost stony face, framed by long, dark hair which was greying at the temples and held back by a leather headband.

"A spice dealer from Ebou Dar passed through here last week with stories of Whitecloak border raids, but then he said that also was nothing out of the ordinary. Oh, pardon me, Master Andra, but there is something from Ghealdan after all. Silly me," she muttered and almost blushed as he raised his eyes. Blushed, or paled. Her body felt it hard to decided what to do as his hard blue eyes waited for her to continue. "I forgot about when you first asked, because it happened months ago," she cleared her throat. "Apparently some sieges have been won with the help of some mercenaries and a new machine. I don't know much about such martial matters, but several travellers told me the same story, a story about a machine that could throw massive rocks over hundreds of paces!" she shook her head in disbelief. If there was such a thing, she as a Lugarder most certainly would have heard of it before, but she was obliged to tell Andra what she had heard.

"And then there's that matter in Altara last month," she lowered her voice and looked around, trying to make sure what she said could not be overheard.

When she was done talking, Andra simply nodded, emptied his mug in one go and pushed it over to her.

"May the Light shine on you, Mistress Thane."

With that he rose from the barstool, took a quick look across the whole common room and strode to the inn's door, where he vanished into the night.

Duranda Thane took the pouch Master Andra had dropped into the empty mug and let it slid into one of the many pockets of her bright red apron. For a moment she looked after him as he left the "Good Night's Ride", weighing the pouch in her pocket out of habit.

There was always good silver to be made when she acted as eyes-and-ears of the White Tower and not just as Duranda Thane, the gossip broker.

The man called Andra moved through the nightly streets of Lugard in quick strides, his icy blue eyes piercing the flickering twilight the lanterns on their poles created. There were few men in the streets at this time of the day, and even fewer horses, and those few men that hid in the dark corners of streets in the worse parts of town that he took a short-cut through had the sense to back away from him. His cloak almost made him merge with the colours his back stood against, and were it did not hide him it gave revealed a sheathed sword hanging on a belt around his waist so naturally it seemed to be a part of him.

Andra, whose real name was Lan, al'Lan Mandragoran to be precise, crossed the maze of streets quickly, knowing his way around the place just as much as one could expect from one who had lived all his life in Lugard's narrow streets. This instinctive knowledge and his preparedness had more than once saved his life, for his usual duties were a lot more dangerous than listening to the stories of greedy innkeepers.

Finding his way from the lower districts to the south-east of the city the streets became wider, and the houses seemed more pristine and ornate, if not necessarily wealthy. The cobblestone streets here were even emptier than in the quarters of the city besides the riverfront, leading up the gently sloped hill in just as gently angled terraces that reminded him of giant, low stairs. Even further up the hill the he knew the houses would become more splendid, with marble figures, colourful and life-like carvings and coloured windows. Murandy's pathologically disunited nobility and the city's rich merchants had their estates there, centered around King Roadran's citadel.

Gusts of wind drove the smoke from the chimneys in the lower quarters up the hill. The wind was cold and damp and left a taste of soot in his mouth. He stopped in the middle of the road and slid into a back alley where he merged with the shadows where he waited and listened intently. Nobody moved outside in the street, just as he had expected it. He had ways and means to make sure he was not followed, and if he was followed, his gut and his instincts usually warned him. Still, long years of service had taught him that it was better to err on the side of caution.

The back alley was empty except for a large tomcat patiently waiting in a dark corner. It hissed angrily and bared its teeth when Lan trespassed on its hunting ground, sliding into the narrow backyard with silent steps. The tall and weathered man did not mind. In fact, a part of him was glad to see the cat out there for it kept rats and vermin away.

A single, wood-framed door lead into the backside of a brick-built house with two narrow windows guarded by solid wrought-iron cross-bars. He slid through the door and locked it from the inside. The light of a fireplace drew long shadows across the hallway he found himself in. The door at its end had been left ajar. He crossed the few paces without making a sound and strode into the room.

Even after all those years she was still as smoothly beautiful as she had been when they first met, even though that had hardly been a moment to indulge somebody else's appearance, he remembered with wry amusement. The petite woman sitting in a high-backed lounge chair had large, dark eyes and dark hair, smooth skin and a body to drive men who did not know her or what she was mad. The blue gemstone held at the middle of her forehead by a delicate golden chain fastened in her hair sparkled lively in the light the licking flames in the fireplace shed.

Moiraine closed the small leather-bound book she had been reading in the light of the fireplace and two beeswax candles and carefully placed it back on the table besides her chair. She glanced at Lan, smiling.

"Still trying to sneak up on me after all these years?" she asked in mock disappointment.

"Who better to train against than an Aes Sedai?" the warder replied with one of his seldom manifestations of humour. He sat down on a stool between her and the fire. The still tightly wrapped cloak made it look as if he stood in the middle of the flames. They both knew there was no real sneaking up on each other, not between the two of them. The bonds between a warder and an Aes Sedai were strong enough to let each of them instinctively know where the other was – at least after such a long time, and on such short distances.

Moiraine Sedai, née Moirane Damodred of House Damodred, niece to King Laman of Cairhien who had died on the slopes of Dragonmount at the hands of the Aiel for the crime of cutting down _Avendoraldera_, had bonded al'Lan Mandragoran fifteen years ago. Her battle was his battle, like it was the battle of all Aes Sedai and warders to fight the Dark One, but her quest was one only three people knew of, and two were in this room: the search for the _Dragon Reborn_.

"So, how is Mistress Thane?"

"Alive, and all too greedy for my liking," the uncrowned king of the lost realm of Malkier replied gruffly while balancing the cup of delicately thin porcelain with two fingers. Not a single drop of the steaming hot tea swashed over the edge and on his rough hands. "I find her allegiance to be... unreliable," he frowned.

"She takes a risk on herself, working for Tar Valon this close to Amadicia and Tear," she reminded him softly. "There are much more Children of the Light on the road here than in the Borderlands, Lan."

"Whitecloaks," the warder muttered disdainfully, then looked into Moirane's ageless face. "She might betray us one day."

Moiraine put her own cup aside and sighed faintly.

"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, Lan. The sisters will deal with that day when it has come. Now, would you please tell me what she said to you?"

The warder collected his thoughts and took a sip of tea before beginning to talk. It tasted of mint and herbs and was hot enough to drive what remained of the night's chill from his bones.

"She talked to be for more than an hour, and most of it was plain gossip of the type wagon drivers tell," he told her with a frown. "Pedron Niall does what he has been doing for that past thirty years," he continued. "Nothing of what the innkeeper reported hints at that he might be up to something bigger. There was, however, a battle involving Whitecloaks in northern Altara, on the Jehennah Road, and there might be a lead there. Thane says she was told by several sources independent of each other that a hilltop on which the Whitecloaks advanced erupted in a massive explosion of earth and fire, killing many of them. I am no friend of the Children," he looked at Moiraine, "but something killed those quite violently."

"Yes." The Aes Sedai turned her head and stared into the licking flames. "Something, ... or _someone_."

**Author's Notes**

_This story will _not_ see the use of professional gunpowder weapons. There are already too many priorities I have to keep in mind to burden myself even further with that. That being said, gunpowder weapons require an enormous amount of professional expertise to build, as well as a degree of metallurgy and pre-industrial infrastructure which to achieve in the scope of this story would be quite simply absurd. That the chemistry to create gunpowder exists is, however, already hinted at with the Fireworkers' Guild, the only difference being that they use small amounts to create beautiful effects while I use large mounts to achieve devastating effects. _

_Moiraine and Lan also will not be seen for quite some time again, but I thought it fitting to craft them into the story this early for it gives some insight and scale of the time their quest has consumed (Lan became her warder in 979 N.E.) and the distances they have already crossed on their search for clues regarding Rand's whereabouts._


	13. Otherworld

**Chapter 13**

** Otherworld  
**

****He awoke to the sound of moans and the stench of vomit in the shadow of what looked like a tall pillar. Besides him, people lay toppled over each other, their eyes still closed but their bodies already stirring. Their wagons and animals were also here - where ever _here_ was - scattered all over what he now realized was an artificial hollow. There were also neighs racked with pain, and subdued pleas for help, but he was too dazed and the situation too alien and chaotic to let him put a direction to these sounds.

Tarmion tried to push himself up with his back against the pillar. His leg gave in, courtesy of the old arrow wound he had suffered at their first siege. Steadying himself, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Zath had lost his mask and was looking around uneasily, trying to get a measure of the situation they were in. Marisa was there too, emptying her stomach, something that reminded him of the queasy feeling in his own guts. Watching somebody vomit was hardly the most romantic view, but seeing her there and apparently in one piece filled him with a sense of great relief.

His eyes darted around, looking for other familiar faces. Aryman stood on the hollow's ridge, resting on a long spear in, looking alerted, but - in truth - more surprised than concerned. Mellen cradled his wife Gella, and for an instant fear overcame him that the friendly woman was dead before he saw that she alive and sobbing in her husband's arms. Marek was wandering about with glassy eyes, muttering about where he had left his hat - the hat he had on his head. Azral lay on his back at the bottom of the pillar, both arms stretched out. His eyes were closed, and even from afar Tarmion could see his hands and fingers were burned to a crisp red. He hurried over to the old farmer and fell to his knees besides him. His chest was heaving softly, and with faint sighs he kept breathing, but he nothing Tarmion did seemed to rouse him from his sleep. Cursing, he looked up, at the pillar.

Only now did he realize that it was not a natural stone pillar. In the middle of the hollow stood a grey stone cylinder, every bit of three spans high and a full pace thick, covered with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of deeply incised diagrams and markings in some language he did not recognize. It was leaning to one side by almost half a span, as if it had casually been nudged by a giant and never been restored. White stone paved the bottom of the hollow, as level as a floor, polished so smooth it almost glistened beneath all the dust and earth that had buried a quarter of it. Broad, high steps rose to the rim in concentric rings of different coloured stone. Unlike the floor of the hollow, those had long since turned blind, with wind and weather having beaten at the mosaics until only a few spots remained where the original colours shone through. The rest of the steps was raw stone, worked with great craftsmanship apparent even after all the time that must have had passed since the monument had been built.

Despite the state of disrepair the place had obviously fallen into Tarmion could feel it was a place of great power. The stone gave him goosebumps on his bared arms and caused Caraan Tureed to cackle maniacally only inches from the barriers away he had built around him in his mind. He worriedly looked back at the unconscious man at his feet.

"You!" he grabbed a man wandering about and shook him from his daze. "Get me Enija," he ordered him to fetch the woman whose specialities where herbs and ointments and salves against injuries and illnesses. "I want a roll call!" he added more forcefully, loud enough for all in the hollow to hear. "And get those bloody wagons and horses back upright!"

Forcing himself to action, he climbed up the high steps, past toppled wagons and low bushes whose seeds had found cracks in the stone underground. Up close the colours of the steps seemed even more faded, with only bits and parts still shining in their original tones. Tarmion stopped besides Aryman, breathing heavily and sweating beneath his woollen cloak and tunic. A frown seemed to be chiselled into the Taraboner's features, and it took Tarmion only a quick glance to realize why that was.

"Doesn't look like Altara," he said hesitantly after having taken in as much of the picture lay out before them as he could.

"Doesn't look like winter either," Aryman added dryly.

Which was true enough. Had he first thought the warmth came from the stress and the side-effects of whatever had happened to them, he now had to change his position. There was no snow. In fact, the way these lands looked he found it hard to believe that it snowed there at all. And it all looked somehow _paler_ than it should be.

They were on the peak of a tall hill, the highest hill for miles, or so it seemed. The landscape was rolling, with more and higher hills than what they were used to, and it continued to their south where Altara's great central forest should have been. There was no Jehennah Road and no villages. In fact, there was no sign of human civilization at all: no fields, no houses, not even the faint pillars of smoke which signalled fireplaces or hearths on which people prepared their meals. Fir trees, a common sight for northern Altara, were nowhere to be seen. Instead of those, knee-high yellow grass covered most of the land, with groves of tall trees with green leaves growing along small streams and seemingly a thousand ponds interspersed between them. There was no clear path, not even so much as a foot trail to be seen. Worse, those streams and ponds would make traversing these lands a tedious business. But contemplation about that would have to wait.

There was a commotion in the hollow as people tried to help each other, searching for their belongings and loved ones, trying to right the wagons among wounded horses. Some wagons completely lacked their draught animals, but there were tracks of hooves leading out of the hollow. Whatever had brought them all here had most likely frightened the animals or turned them mad enough to make them flee.

And in the middle of all of it, there was Marisa, her red hair standing out like a lit torch in the darkness. He wanted to hold her, be there just for her to ease her sorrows and fear, but here, right now, he knew he needed to be the leader first, not the lover.

"Duty weighs harder than stones," he muttered darkly.

Aryman raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. The swordmaster remained remarkably calm.

Tarmion moved back into the hollow, far enough to still tower above the rest of them and be seen by all.

"Calm down!" he yelled. "Everybody, _calm down_!" he formed a funnel with both hands.

That brought about the wanted effect. Slowly, hesitantly, people turned towards him, lowering their voices.

"I know we are all scared, and we are all distraught by what just happened. You don't know what it was, and neither do I. But we have to remain rational. We have to _think_ before we act." He cleared his throat and pointed to the ridge behind him. "The Whitecloaks are gone. But it's not they who have vanished, it's _us_. Where ever we are, I can assure you, it is not Altara any more," that drew concerned murmurs until Mellen, despite looking just as distraught as the rest of them all, his arm wrapped around his wife, barked a gruff "Silence!" and restored some sense of order.

"The most important thing right now is that we keep a level head. Mellen will pick a dozen guards to be placed around the hollow," he motioned towards the burly middle-aged man. "For the rest of all of us, we will help the healers, tend the wounded and get our gear back into order. I know we can do this, because I know you people are the best and most resilient lot I have ever known." He looked into the sky where a sun not quite as pale as a winter sun stood almost in its zenith. "An hour from now I want all wounded to be accounted for. I want to know who is here, and who is alive and well. Now, let's get things done!" he commanded, and to his surprise the crowd beneath him started to move.

That hour practically flew by, and its end brought both, good and bad news. Most of the wagons were salvageable, and there were still enough horses so that all of them could be drawn, but the number of dead and missing came as a greater shock than he had anticipated. Of the more than two hundred that had set up camp near Tallan, only one hundred and forty-six were still alive and with them. Most had either fallen before they had reached the hilltop back at the other place, or had been left behind by what ever phenomenon had taken here.

'Only it was no phenomenon,' a voice whispered in his head, and Caraan Tureed chuckled in amusement. 'It was Azral channelling, and you know that. You could even see it,' the voice teased him. 'Now why might that be...,' it trailed off, chuckling, only to be replaced by the voice of the dead channeller. Surprisingly, it sounded sincere and almost worried this time.

[Travelling by using portal stones is no mundane feat], there was strong reproach in his voice. [The _One Power_ could have burned you petulant children all to cinders, dabbling into things you have no idea off. Like letting a ten year old get his hands on the console of a sho-wing], he scoffed. [Blasted you to pieces and turned you inside out]! he yelled maniacally, directly followed by a tormented moan. [Seaina, what have I done!], he cried out and fell silent again.

A channeller in their midst, he thought and frowned. Tarmion would not be able to keep that a secret forever, not here, not after what had happened. People would start to speculate, and it was only a matter of time until some would reach the right conclusions. And then what? Male channellers were as bad as the Dark One himself in most people's eyes. And once they found out, it was just a small step to accuse Tarmion of complicity. Would they still follow him, obey him after that?

[Focus!], a chorus of voices driven by the howl of a thousand trapped souls ripped him out of his contemplations.

Tarmion blinked, both at his surroundings and at the fact that for the first time his little inner asylum had spoken as one – and in his support.

Taking a deep breath, he marched back into the hollow, somehow trying to look confident. He focussed his thoughts on the one other thing he held dear above all else – Marisa. The red-haired woman sat besides her father on the bed of Enija's wagon where the herbs' woman treated Azral with a sceptical frown frozen on her features. Marisa's eyes were red from crying, and even now there were tears, silent tears, running down her cheeks. He took her hand into his and put an arm around her.

"I came as fast as I could," he murmured. "I'm sorry that I left you alone with all this," Tarmion apologized, but she just threw herself into his arms, and all he could do was cradle her like a small child.

"He still hasn't opened his eyes," she sobbed, pressing her head against his chest. "His hands are burned, but Enija says there is nothing else she can see. He's not wounded, but he just doesn't wake up. And he just lies there like made of stone. Light, we can't even move his arms, so stiff are they," she blurted out, shaking.

"He'll get better soon again," Tarmion tried to sound reassuring while he tried to softly kiss away her tears. "He's gone through so much, Light, we've gone through so much together! It takes more than that to harm your father. He's like a gnarled old oak: he used to look better, but burn me if he isn't tough," the joke was weak, but still managed to make her giggle, if only for a moment.

[Or maybe he's burned himself out]. Caraan Tureed sounded disinterested, but gave his comments nonetheless. [That's what happens to those who wield more of the One Power than they should].

Angrily, Tarmion brushed the thought and the voice aside and confined it to the back of his mind. Azral being burned out, that was not an alternative he was willing to consider. Whatever he had done, it had been achieved by wielding the One Power. Without that, they were doomed to remain here – where ever here was.

"I don't want to go," Tarmion whispered, "but the others also need me."

Marisa kissed him fiercely, longingly, holding him tightly, but he softly wound himself out of her embrace, brushing the last of her tears away with his thumb. "I'll be by your side as often as I can," he promised, then slid back into the turmoil.

Azral's wagon stood straight, almost untouched on the third step from the bottom. Tarmion crawled inside and changed his clothes. When he stepped out again, the heavy wool and thick cloak had gone, and instead he wore his full armour and weapons over strong grey tunics. Clad like this, he waited for the reports from his closest companions.

A dozen or so had died here, in that hollow, squashed beneath toppling wagons weighing ten hundredweights or more, trampled to death by horses going haywire. Of the rest, almost everybody had suffered bruises and cuts, some even broken bones. There was nothing left to do for them here. They buried their dead in simple unmarked graves outside the hollow after they had pushed and pulled their wagons out with combined efforts.

When they were done, Tarmion spoke to them once more.

"Back home, we were moving east. And for now, we will _keep_ moving east," he commanded and swung himself into the saddle of his dapple grey stallion. "Pack up, and keep your guard up." East was as good as any other direction. And maybe they would find some answers there.

Travelling cross country turned out to be not quite as hard as he had feared it would. The ground was dry and firm, and the many streams they had to cross were often smaller than two paces in width. Still, claiming it was easy would have been a lie. The landscape was a lot more rolling than he had first assumed, and driving their heavy wagons up and down the slopes of hill after hill exhausted men and animals alike. And it was _warm_, with temperatures easily comparable to those found in Saven, the sixth month of the year. At least with the constant streams and ponds they would not die of thirst any time soon.

Tarmion had made it his task to test the waters they filled their waterskins with. In the end, it was him who was responsible for the situation they were in, so it was also his responsibility to keep his people safe. But the wells he had drunken from tasted just the way they should.

If it was not for that strange paleness that clung to everything, this place - while looking different - was no less alive than the one they had come from. Everything seemed to be a bit too washed out to look normal, with the leaves on the trees being just an ounce too wan in their shades of green, the sky looking a tad bit too misty for the clear early summer day that it actually was and the sun, while sending warm rays down on them, appearing more like the pale yellow disk above wintery Altara. Yet aside from these strange colours, the place was basically brimming with life. Bees and butterflies buzzed over fields of wild flowers, flies and waterspiders and frogs and even small fish lived in the many streams and ponds, and the songs of a thousand birds nesting in the many groves found the way to their ears.

Ravens and hawks wheeled in the cloudless sky in the search for carrion or prey, and there were other, stranger birds, almost twice as large as the biggest eagle he had ever seen. Only those had blue feathers, and long, pointy red beaks and a high-pitched, heart-piercing cry. And birds where hardly the only animals. Wild cattle grazed in herds off the tall, yellow grass, lean beasts with brown and yellow and almost white hides lead by tall bulls with massive, wound horns. Rabbits were a common sight, slender brown-furred animals living in dens beneath the steppe, so common indeed that they became a steady ingredient of their diet. And there were other animals, deer with almost red hides and long, straight and pointy horns who could run as fast as a falcon could fly. And there were predators. A pack of two dozen wolves shadowed them curiously, almost like an escort, for several miles before the pack leader turned their attention to a herd of grazing deer. Tall cats with black fur that reminded them of mountain cats sometimes lived in the groves, sporting razor-sharp teeth and claws.

And then there were the bear-frogs.

Marek had called them that, and while everybody agreed it was a stupid name, nobody could come up with a better description of what they were. A beast as tall as a large bear, but with the physique of a frog, thick grey-green hides and a tough beak were teeth and maw should be, it had attacked them blindly on the second day of their march east. The grotesque creature had thrown half their horses in a frenzy, and as if that had not been worse enough it had taken six men attacking it to hold it back, and no matter how much they stabbed and slashed at it, the thing just refused to die.

It was Arianna who put an end to it by putting an arrow right into its middle eye in a masterful shot.

And yes, the bear-frog had three eyes, which pretty much put the lid on its grotesque appearance. After they had encountered that one, they had returned to fortifying their camps for the night and lighting fires around it. If someone lived here, they would notice the Companions like this, but that was a risk Tarmion was willing to take. It was preferable to meet someone from an easily defensible position, preferable especially to having some freakish beast sneak into the camp and kill their horses or, the Light forbid, their people.

Arianna, when she could pry herself from Zath, scouted ahead as part of Yurion's experienced group of outriders who kept a keen watch after the first bear-frog had caught them off guard. Mellen had returned to his old role and kept the people occupied when they made camp, as did Aryman. Tarmion spent the time he had for himself with Marisa, who sat at her father's side. Azral Tane was still unconscious, but at least he had eased up a bit. Enija, their herbal woman, had expressed careful confidence that he might soon wake up again while she had changed the bandages around his hands. She avoided looking at them when she wrapped new linen drenched in ointments around them.

She knows, Tarmion realized. Light, she knows. He could see how tense she was, but he could do nothing to ease her. A man who could channel. Who of them would not be afraid? And for how long would that secret still be safe? Enija probably could be reasoned with, but there were others. Marek had become rather quiet and reclusive, and Zath had observed that the foppish pickpocket steered as clear of the wagon Azral rested on as he possibly could. And could the youth be reasoned with? And if not, how far was he willing to go to keep their secret?

Burn me, he cursed. Burn me! He needed Azral. They needed Azral, if they wanted to get back home from this place.

[Sometimes, telling the truth is the hardest thing to do], Caraan Tureed mused.

Yes, and sometimes the truth will get you killed, Tarmion responded caustically.

The trek came to an unexpected halt on their fifth day. The first wagons had just climbed a wide ridge when it became apparent that where ever they were, it was undeniably different from the place they had come from. Counting the distance they had crossed during the past days and taking the hill in northern Altara as their start, Mellen had calculated that by now they should come close to the shores of the River Manetherendrelle - this far south, a massive stream easily two or three hundred paces wide and far too deep to be crossed.

Instead of the flowing floods of the river named after the old and long forgotten kingdom, a chain of snow-peaked mountains cut through the lands to the east and south of them.

"Next time we take the straight way again," Aryman muttered sourly. "Following the streams between the hills may be easier on the horses, but if we had taken some of those heights we wouldn't be standing in front of the mountains now like a bunch of bloody wool-heads. Burn me!"

The lands in front of them declined into a wide valley, measuring easily five or six miles from the peak of the ridge to the start of the rocky hills and the mountains behind them, soaring into a sky covered with clouds all around the higher peaks. More plants were growing here, and the further east the valley declined, the fresher and greener they became, almost reaching a point were the colours seemed so full they made one forget one was not home. However, it did not reach the mountains. Like a black barrier, deep and silent a lake wound itself between them and the peaks that fed it with icy waters. As far as their eyes could see the lake cut them off from the mountains to the east.

Aryman frowned and drove his horse closer to the lake in a gallop. Tarmion gave his dapple grey the spurs and hurried after him. After half a mile the Taraboner stopped his mount and frowned again, his forehead almost wrinkled so much that it reached over his eyebrows. With a scream Tarmion brought his horse to a halt directly besides the swordmaster.

"Blood and ashes, what is it with you?" he cursed angrily.

Aryman did not react at first but kept peering at the lake. Something caught his eye, and he motioned to Tarmion.

"There, look."

He followed Aryman's outstrechted arm, and then he saw it. Something was reflecting from the lake. Something tall.

They rode as close as the marshlands allowed them to and stopped on a small mound only a hundred paces away from the lake's shore. Along its whole length it was surrounded by tall reeds in which, by the sound of it, every kind of bird nested. The wagons remained at a safe distance on firmer ground.

The reflection on the lake's surface had been white as snow, or ice, on the black floods.

A dozen white towers ending in jagged tops, shining like polished ivory, breached the still surface a good mile into the dark floods. Tarmion could not make out from which kind of material they were made, but they seemed to be untouched by the forces of wind and weather and time. The distance distorted the relations, but they had to have been truly massive constructions in their prime. He could see the dark holes of frameless windows, like a thousand empty eyes in a bleached skull, and if his eyes did not betray him, not a single bird came near the ruins or even nested in them. They were a truly dead place.

"Now we do at least know there are other people here," Tarmion tried to sound light-heartedly.

"Or were."

Without a second look Aryman turned his horse around and returned to the wagons.

With their path blocked, Tarmion lead their trek northwards along the lake's shore. From time to time they glimpsed other ruins reaching out of the depths, but the further north they marched the fewer of them appeared, until the waters lay untouched and dark again. Dominated by low bushes, lush grass and small groves of close-standing trees, the valley almost made them forget they were in a strange and foreign place. For hours they crossed thin streams and grassy plains cooped-up between low mounds until the lands to their west widened, the ridge receding back into the downs and the yellow grass plains they had come to know.

The pale sun stood above the hills in the west in a deep, misty orange when harsh bellows, cracking like whips tore through the ambient noise of the wildlife and nature and sent all birds in the vicinity soar up into the sky in alarmed swarms. From one moment to the other grazing horned deer jumped into a panicked sprint, away from the source of the harsh sounds. Again the bellows shrilled, and from behind the receding ridge five large, greyish-green figures stormed towards them.

"Bear-frogs!" Mellen cried out, and like one all heads in the trek turned to where his hand had pointed.

Arrows arched into the sky, ten, twenty of them, but even those that found their targets made little impression on the charging beasts, piercing their thick hides and doing nothing but enraging them further. He remembered the first bear-frog had looked almost comically when it had moved, waddling like a duck, but their was nothing funny now as five of them came closer in long, firm-footed leaps. They crossed the long distance horrifyingly fast.

Arianna jumped from her horse in an elegant, fluent motion. In one flowing movement the tall, silver-haired woman drew an arrow to her cheek, took aim with her eyes firmly fixed on the lead bear-frog - and in an almost straight line, like a thunderbolt, the shaft sunk deep into the beast's central eye, felling the creature without so much as a sound. Yurion had also heaved himself on top of a wagon and taken aim. There was no use in taking their horses to the fight as the strange beasts drove the animals mad. It took the experienced hunter two arrows to kill another creature, then they were upon them.

Snarling, bellowing and snapping with their hard beaks faster than anyone could have imagined from their bumbling appearance the remaining three beasts attacked men and animals alike with no distinction. As large as, no, even taller than great bears, they threw themselves against the spears and swords and axes of the companions. Tarmion saw the fear in his men's eyes, fear that he felt himself. It was one thing, fighting other men for gold and silver, but fighting nightmarish monsters he thought could just as well have come directly from the Blight was something completely different. Still, he drew his sword, _had_ to draw his sword, and threw himself into the fray.

They were freakishly fast. He barely evaded one's claws as it ramped and barked out its hate-filled bellow, rolling over his own shoulder. In the motion he grabbed his double-bladed sword in both hands, pushed himself forward forcefully and drove the weapon into another beast's belly, down to its hilt. It was a form Zath had taught him, an ambitious manoeuvre he had called "The Sun's Own Shadow". Gravely wounded, the creature roared and flailed with its dangerous, but short forelegs, clawing at Tarmion. Having sheathed his blade in the enemy, Tarmion hurled himself aside, drew his long hunting knife and stabbed it deep into the same beast's hind legs where the sinews ought to be. With a shrill shriek, the bear-frog tumbled and collapsed, and its roaring bellows were replaced by increasingly pain-filled yelps when the Companions had surrounded it. A dozen men hacked and slashed at the monstrosity until it no longer moved.

Zath danced between the remaining two, his daggers with their greenish tinge easily, almost effortlessly cutting deep through thick hides, bones and brawny flesh. The halfman drew the beasts' attention to himself so that the others had it easier with their bows and spears. Tarmion had wanted to continue to attack himself, but found himself silently watching his oldest friend, realizing probably for the first time just how dangerous the man could be. He had survived servitude and the torturous grooming at _Shayol Gul_, had fought the creatures of the Blight just as well as the best defenders of the Borderlands. Zath Talaka with his two deadly daggers forged in foul rituals in the depths of _Thakan'dar_ against one of those beasts probably would have been a fair fight. The way it was, he darted around between the grey-greenish beasts, dodging their blows almost casually, cutting deep wounds which together with the constant attacks by the companions who by now had fully surrounded them wore the bear-frogs down until Yurion could safely put arrows through their skulls.

Still breathing heavily, Tarmion overlooked the men and realized to his surprise and relief that none had been seriously injured. He pulled his horse past the corpses. The animal still shied away from the beasts, a reaction he had all the sympathy in the world for.

"We can't stay here," he announced hoarsely. "The light know what kind of beasts the carcasses will attract, so I want everybody back in their saddles _now_. Let's get some miles between us and them before we make camp for the night. Move it!"

Aryman drove his horse next to him. The Taraboner sat in the saddle, cleaning his heron-mark sword with a piece of cloth on his lap.

"You're getting a hang of this," he mused with a hint of approval. "They need this kind of leadership. You cannot see it, but they are on the edge."

"And so am I," Tarmion snapped, instantly regretting it. "Forgive me, Aryman," he muttered and pressed his lips together until they turned into almost bloodless lines. "I have to keep them safe. I just _have_ to."

The swordmaster broke the silence and grabbed something from his saddlebags.

"I thought you might want to see this," he unravelled a piece of metal from some cloth.

It was a spear tip made from cast iron, roughly worked and twisted at the tip. There was no rust on it - and it was not one of theirs.

**Day 7 After the Transition - The First Week of Saban in the Westlands**

There had been no further attacks like that one, a fact people attributed to his orders of doubling the guards at night and having Yurion's outriders scout further ahead. Tempers had calmed down a bit, too, something Tarmion was in truth more happy about than the lack of attacks. For two days, their trek rattled north and north-east, always along the shores of the deep, almost black lake against the shadows of the eastern mountains. The water had the cold of the high mountains in it, but it tasted fresh and invigorating. The winds coming from the mountains also eased the unfamiliar heat. He had kept the news about the spear tip to his closest circle. While everybody had seemed relieved that apparently there were other people here with them – Zath had dismissed the idea that it was something forged for Trollocs as "too primitive, and lacking cruelty" -, not knowing who they were and where they were just added further variables to an already too confusing equation.

If there was one thing they had learned the hard way, it was that people were the greatest predators of all, and it was just by now that the Companions slowly started to realize the extent of loss they had suffered. There had only been so much he could do to keep people's hands and minds occupied with more pressing matters, but seven days after they had been thrown to this place the daze and awe of their voyage and the new lands was wearing off. Sixty of their friends had died. Some families had been wiped out, others were mourning the loss of a brother, a father, a child. It was not easy for anyone, but it made them all close their ranks even more. Tarmion could see it in their eyes, their determined and angry faces when they practised under Aryman's watchful eyes.

And it made him lean even closer to Marisa. The strong-willed red-haired woman was one of two people in the world he felt he could really talk with, someone who saw behind the mask of Tarmion, the leader, and saw Tarmion, the man, and liked what she saw. She scolded him when he did things she thought to be stupid or dangerous, and he missed every moment she was not by his side. Tarmion had never been a too emotional man, but he loved her with all his heart. Her presence made him put aside his sorrows, if just for the few hours they spent together.

But they were not gone.

The late afternoon hours of the seventh day dawned when the lands to their north and west began to change. The differences were so small they did not even notice at first, as the slopes of low hills rose and fell to the north they way they had done before, and ducks quacked in the belt of reeds around the dark lake to their east while herons stalked from one long and thin leg to another in the shallow waters, hunting for fish. Only be chance did they realize that a low ridge they had climbed was in fact, no ridge, but a path overgrown with sometimes thigh-high grass, wide enough to drive a wagon on. It lead along the lake for a mile or so before moving to higher ground.

They decided to follow it.

"Yurion, scout ahead, but try not to be seen. We do not know what awaits us, and I have no desire to stumble into a wolf's den," he told the grizzled, gaunt hunter.

The trek had not even reached the first peak across which the hardly visible track ran when Yurion and another of the scouts returned, riding hard and stopping their horses harshly right in front of the lead wagon. The hunter looked visibly taken aback.

"We met a man hardly a mile to the north-east from here. Well, we did not truly _meet_ him," Yurion frowned. "We were galloping up the next hill, and when we reached the hilltop he was hardly a hundred spans away from us. A farmer, though most likely one of the poorer bastards, possibly in servitude, by the looks of it," he spat out, showing what he thought of _that_ concept.

"Had two cows on a leash," the other man, a fair-skinned, heavily muscled Domani named Makal Zaibac who wore his shoulder-long black hair in dozens of plaits added. "Skinny things, easily a foot or so smaller than every cow I've ever seen. Let go of them the moment he saw us."

Yurion Stormcrow nodded and scratched his balding head.

"Threw away his staff, too. The poor fellow got eyes like saucers and began to scream and run away as fast as those short legs carried him. Blood and bloody ashes, we didn't even do anything!" he muttered. "We stopped at once and just stood there, and that fellow looks at us as if he's seen the flaming Dark One himself, or at least one of the Forsaken!"

"I'd have hoped for a better first contact with these people," Tarmion frowned. "No doubt he's run home as fast as he could, and if my experience is any good he'll be whipping everybody else into a frenzy, for what reason ever. Fine," he said in a voice that signalled it was anything but fine, "let's get moving again. We'll try to stay clear of those people for now until we can make a choice of when and where to meet them on our terms. Last thing we need is to jump into the fire blindfolded."

They had indeed arrived at what seemed to be the outskirts of civilization, as the farther north and east they travelled, the more common became the sight of meadows with the small cattle Yurion and Makal had spotted before, and ploughed fields and farm houses covered with roofs in which grass grew. Just as with the first instance they had met a living soul, the people herding the cattle and tending the fields fled in horror, and the few villages they passed by sat quiet and behind closed gates on hilltops that were easy to defend. Their trek passed them by in safe distances on those narrow, dusty roads that crossed the lands here ever more frequently.

Nothing had happened so far, but the frown on Tarmion's face had deepened during the past days, and everybody else also seemed to feel the weight of uncertainty pressing down on them. For all they knew, they might just be walking into a trap.

Aryman looked to the low, round hilltop to their north and frowned while Tarmion and the rest brought their horses to a halt besides the Taraboner. Two men knelt atop the peak, long spears in their hands, the midday sun mirroring in their polished helmets. They had first appeared in the morning as a group of maybe twenty armed men on foot and had been shadowing their every move ever since. The grey-haired swordmaster blinked, his eyes searching along the fields and hedges along their northern flank, and his frown deepened.

"They could be hiding an army behind that ridge," he muttered sourly, his hand unconsciously reaching for the hilt of his sword.

"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills," Mellen shrugged and drew his dagger, cleaning the gaps between his teeth with the point.

"That's a load of flaming crap," Tarmion snapped, more harshly than he had intended to. "We make our own fortunes. If we fell for that kind of fatalistic clap-trap we might just as well lay down and wait for all our ends," he said through clenched teeth, shaking his head. "No, the only ones to determine our fates are we ourselves. I thought the last year was proof enough of that," he added with a dry smile.

"Not to interrupt you two in your philosophical discourses," Zath stated as level and dry as none other could even hope to, "but there is an awful lot of smoke rising behind that hill," he pointed to the north-east.

Tarmion realized he was right. They had been so embroiled in their concerns about the men that followed them that he had not even noticed the smell in the air. Besides that, he had started to worry about their supply situation. Travelling across the cultivated lands of a foreign people, there was no way to feed them all just by hunting. They were getting further away from the rich hunting grounds of the first days now with every hour. Which only left them looting and stealing, alternatives he sought to avoid as long as humanly possible. The Companions were the foreigners here, the guests, and he knew that besmirching that guest right would lead them past a point of no return, and quite literally so.

"Very well. Yurion, Zath, you three: with me! Let's take a look!" he commanded and clapped his spurs to his horse. The mare leaped forward, closely followed by the other horses, drawing a cloud of dust behind them. Tarmion recognized with grim satisfaction that the two sentries also had leaped to their feet and now tried to keep up with them in a safe distance, to no avail. Not for the first time did he wonder who in his right mind would send out scouts on foot to follow a mounted company like theirs, but the thought passed as fast as it had come when he felt the wind in his face and left all sounds but the clatter of hooves behind him. He loved the cold air, and he loved the loneliness he experienced during the seldom times he spurred his horse to a sprint. They allowed his thoughts to wander free, putting aside the pressures of responsibility and leadership, if only for a short time.

Yurion's horse overtook him, the man's eyes narrowed down to slits against the wind, his leather-bound grey and black hair flapping in the rhythm of his mount's movements. He stopped his horse fifty paces ahead of them, on top of the ridge, and silently staring - at the walled city behind the ridge, and the massive red tower in its centre.


	14. The Red Tower

_Sorry, wrote myself into a bit of a artistic corner with the impression of a big and tense stand-off at the end of the last chapter that just did not work out for me even though I tried several approaches. Hence, a small jump ahead in time. Anyway, it brings us one step closer to a conclusion of the first book, and the plot will thicken._

**13.2 The Red Tower**

After days and weeks in the wilderness and nothing but the silence of the land to accompany themselves the first few days in the strange and isolated city had been surprinsingly hard on all of them. There were just so many people living within its boundaries that the level of noise and human interaction seemed hardly bearable. That they had been the centre of attention - and in many ways still were - had not made things easier.

That most certainly was the strangest thing. He had never been one to truly need too much human company. Light, in fact he coped rather well with loneliness, and silence. It enabled him to concentrate, to _think_. Especially these days, where he had to suffer the involuntary company within his mind. It was not just Caraan Tureed. True, that one was the worst of it, but the rest was just as unpredictable as the weather: the low moans, the whispers just out of his reach, the feeling of your every move being watched, weighed, judged. Having accepted them as a part of himself had only made it marginally easier to live with them.

However, there was no way to escape them, not here, not anywhere, and the guards standing at the entrances to their quarters were only one reason why not. When they had arrived at the city gates twelve days ago the atmosphere had been frightened and hostile with neither side truly knowing what to make of the situation. And something he had no thought of, and for which he still called himself a fool, had considerably complicated matters, at least at the beginning. The townsfolk did not speak their language. Why anybody, including himself, could have assumed them to speak the common tongue was beyond Tarmion now, but it just had not been a matter anyone had wasted a thought on. They had had to cope with their losses and their new situation first, and when they had come across humans here things had simply moved ahead too fast.

It was a form of the Old Tongue they spoke here, something which put the Grey Companions at a great disadvantage, for one who spoke could rather easily decipher a language being born from it but not the other way around! And precisely because it was so close, it was so difficult, for one automatically fell back into the speech one knew. The intricacies of grammar and the quite natural deviations that simply occurred to every tongue over time made communicating with their hosts a tricky business. Blood and ashes, he still thanked the Creator that had been handled without any bloodshed!

Forty men with spears and high, conical helmets polished to mirror the sun had walked out from behind the city walls to meet them, and once those had by some miracle been convinced that the hundred and fifty men and women and children were indeed just that and not a force of demons mounted on strange beasts a stumbling conversation had commenced. Aryman had lead the talks with the stocky man leading the other warriors after the first sentences had been exchanged in vain, for he at least could claim to have had some resemblance of education in the Old Tongue. It had been audible to even the untrained ear how the conversation became more smooth, and how both sides apparently began to relax.

The City of the High Guardians it was called, a name spoken with pride and reverence by all the townsfolk, rich and poor alike, for it was the High Guardians who protected them against the Darkness and the dangers of the hostile world beyond their thick and high walls. Tarmion had been surprised that none of those guardians had been there when they had been admitted into the city, or later, when they had been given housing and food. He had asked the leader of the city watch who had parlayed with them as much, but Cpatain Erran had only calmly – and quite surprised – responded that "matters mundane do not affect the sitters in the Tower, for their task is it to save the world." Inquiries with other locals had always ended in the same polite, but to them quite cryptic answers.

Still, the Grey Companions were free to move within the city boundaries, even though they stuck out like a sore thumb, for more than one reason. Most the time, a man of the Watch accompanied them when they did so, to serve as an interpreter, and to watch over them and tell their every move to Captain Erran. At least, that was what Tarmion, Zath and Aryman had agreed they would have done under the same circumstances in the man's stead.

There were three roads leading out Red banners showing a golden snake eating its own tail fluttered in the cool breeze coming down from the mountains and across the dark expanses of the lake every morning. They hung from poles on each of the stout towers encircling the city, and five larger ones straightened majestically from tall pillars on each of the outer five points of the tower in the centre of it. There was something familiar about the picture, but with all the strangeness around him he found no way to nail it down.

Today, he had decided to go into the city together with Yurion and Zath, but when they tried to leave their quarters a delegation of the inhabitants was there and blocked the road.

"The High Guardians demand to speak with you," an officer of the Watch informed them in an heavy accent and with hardly hidden surprise over the news in his voice.

The information came as a bit of surprise for them, too, for they had no exactly put on their feastday clothes. Still, the man in charge made it quite clear that the faster one followed the orders of the Guardians, the better one was.

The passers-by shied away from their horses. The townsfolk, and apparently nobody else either were not familiar with horses and had mistaken the Grey Companions for some kind of demons when their scouts had first shadowed them on their way along the lake's shore. Yurion had been furious with his men, but more so with himself that he had not noticed their were being tracked themselves.

Most of their own animals were coldbloods, tall and incredibly strong breeds well-suited for hard labour and drawing wagons, and their erect heads towered more than two hands above even the taller city dwellers they passed. Women drew their children from the paved streets when the clatter of hooves announced the arrival of the visitors. All in all, the City of the High Guardians seemed… unpolished to them, and that was not because of the paleness. In fact, they seemed to notice the curious side effect of being in another world less with every day, for the human mind always found ways and means to adapt to the challenges thrown its way. No, the buildings appeared _cruder_ to him, less well made than even the simpler ones in towns like Roonheart or Katar, and the tools he saw in use were crude iron, and sometimes even bronze. He saw no windows made from glass, or painted pottery the likes which were the stable of even the poorer folk back in the south and the southwest of where they had come from.

In and between, there always was one empty house or another. Zath had noticed that as well and asked the officer leading them through the streets.

"We had a really bad winter," was all he got out of him, but the fact spoke magnitudes of the harsh realm these people were doomed to live in.

Abruptly, the road widened and lead them onto a wide square that was dominated by the Tower of the High Guardians. In truth, the pale red building was not really a tower but a five-sided pyramid, with seven levels rising into the pale sky as high as two hundred paces. The red rock glittered as if it had been laced with silver interspersed with black as the only openings on the lowest level besides the massive doors covered in hammered copper were small slits high in the walls, only large enough for a man to shoot an arrow through. A large stair, wide enough at its feet to have two hundred men ascend side by side lead towards the gates twenty feet above. In the morning sun, each level of the tower glistened in a different colour. One was green, another almost white, and there were other colours, too, which he could not see for he was already too close to the walls.

Zath besides him hesitated.

"What is it?" Tarmion asked in a hushed voice.

"I don't know," the halfman admitted warily, "but something about this place makes me itch. It's like I know something but it just doesn't want to get to the surface. Be careful!" he hissed, his eyes taking in all that was around them.

Whatever it was, they were in no shape to face it if it meant them harm. Zath only had his daggers, Tarmion himself only wore a hunting knife on his belt, and Yurion had left his bow and blades back at their camp. They and their escort reached the top of the stairs which by then had narrowed to a width of less than ten paces. Tall doors made of copper turned green by the weather and the forces of time opened, and Tarmion braced himself for what danger would come out of them.

Faint, soft steps echoed off a marble floor, and from the twilight within the pyramid emerged a woman hardly taller than five feet, wearing a robe of wool and silk in a dozen shades of brown. Her hair was curled in tones of brown and grey, and her face had something motherly in it, but coupled with a sense of serene authority and ageless beauty. She wore a shawl with fringes in many colours.

"May the Light shine upon you all," she intoned in a bright, youthful voice betraying her elderly looks. "I am a sister of the order of the High Guardians. You may call me Nolwenna _Sedai_."

xxxxx

They had walked inside after she had looked them over quickly. High pillars held a rounded ceiling, and in the centre of the entry hall stood a two-tiered stairwell leading up into the heights of the seven platforms of the tower. An eerie twilight that seemed to come from nowhere put just enough light into the tall rooms they passed through to make everything in them barely visible, enough at least to not stumble over one others' feet.

"And you are the one the guards call 'The Maskman'," Nolwenna stopped on the steps, her piercing green eyes seeming to watch right through Zath's dark cherrywood mask. "If you have been wounded, my sisters and I most certainly could take a look at your injuries and heal them," she shrugged and touched Zath's arm. The halfman instinctively tried to yank it back as if he was faced with a poisonous snake, but the motherly woman's grip was firm enough. For a moment, both of them seemed to contemplate their next move, then, as suddenly as she had grabbed him Nolwenna Sedai withdrew her hand again. "It would be the least to do in exchange for what will be asked of your people." With a sigh she turned her head around and continued her climb of the wide central stairwell.

Tarmion only then realized he had held his breath from the very moment the Aes Sedai – light, Aes Sedai! – had started to address his best friend, and let go of the air in his lungs in a long hiss. He was a half myrddraal, and even though he had made his choice in favour of his human side the dark blood was treacherous.

"I don't think she knows!" Zath whispered, his voice full of disbelief and astonishment. "When she touched me I felt…nothing?" The halfman still had both his hands tight around the hilts of his Thrakandar-made daggers, and Tarmion saw the muscles straining beneath the garments and the grey hood.

"Hurry up!" the elderly Aes Sedai called from a dozen steps above them. "It's never been a good idea to let the Mother Guardian wait," she explained irritated. Without checking if they followed her she hurried up the stairs with light-footed steps, leaving Zath and Yurion and Tarmion no other choice than to catch up to her lest they got lost inside the massive, dimly lit building.

She lead them up wide stairs that seemed to change colour with the stones around them, along narrow balconies, through wide halls and past what seemed like hundreds of long shelves full of books and parchments. Corridors only lit by oil lamps were replaced by halls and wide rooms where light shone through intricate glass windows and where lamps spent light and warmth even though there was no flame burning in them. More than once they met other women – no, he corrected himself – other _Aes Sedai_ on their way. Making them out as such was not quite as easy as he had imagined it would be. For one, they all seemed to wear whatever they liked to wear, and each and every shawl looked the same no matter where Tarmion and his friends were lead in the maze-like tower. Another point was that not all seemed to have the ageless qualities of their guide, Nolwenna.

When she finally lead them up a flat stair made from all the colours they had seen before, Tarmion doubted even a seasoned trackers like Yurion would have found his way out of the labyrinth they had journeyed through. Intricate frescos on both sides of the stair showed an epic story told on more than thirty paces of wall. All three of them were unfamiliar with the lore of this world, but to understand the tale told there they did not have to be knowledgeable in it. It was the story of the breaking of the world.

_Men and women fought a great darkness that sent beasts and twisted men and those whose hearts had been consumed by the desire for power against them. The world was sheathed in thunder and flame, and scores of people died while whole cities were burned to the ground by armies and wielders of the power. Then, when all seemed lost, a man, taller than the others, lead a desperate strike against a dark mountain under the northern stars, and sealed it shut, killing his most powerful adversaries in the process. The great darkness dissipated, and the world breathed freedom and peace once more. _

_But they had all been deceived. In the last moments of its defeat, the great darkness had poised the source of its enemies' power and drove them mad. So terrible was their madness that they turned the world upside down. Whole continents burned while deep cracks swallowed lands and cities and the tribes of man. The sun in the skies changed as well, but was soon clouded by the dust the fires threw into the air. A long darkness laid over the world, a winter of snow and ice and ash, and the numbers of man dwindled until only the smallest group was still alive when the first rays of sunlight pierced the sky again after years had passed._

_The lands of yore were gone, as was the great darkness for the clouded peak that had been its lair lay beneath the floods of the great northern sea, but the long night had brought forward new dangers, so the survivors of the global holocaust set out to build a home behind strong walls, and they were lead by the women they began to call the High Guardians, for it was them who fended off the night and healed the weak. And lo, a tower was build for them, from where they watched the race of man…_

The haze lifted from his eyes, and Tarmion realized he still stood in the middle of the wide stair, with Yurion and Zath at his side. Both looked as puzzled as he did, frozen in the middle of their stride.

Nolwenna turned around with an impatient look on her face that rapidly changed to consternation and then to a thoughtful understanding.

"Ah, well, I forgot about that," she mused more to herself than to anybody else. "I've been here to often to even notice it by now. Either way, you three hurry! I don't like repeating myself, and you all should have enough sense in you understand the honour that is being bestowed upon you." She looked them over doubtfully and sighed, still talking mainly to herself. "Well, maybe not. You are outlanders, after all."

"You know we can hear you, woman?" Yurion stated sourly.

"Apparently not, or you would try to keep up with me," Nolwenna quipped without turning to him or slowing her pace. "Come, the Mother Guardian waits!"

xxxxx

"You want us to do _what_?" Yurion looked at the tall woman incredulously.

Tarmion wished the man would keep his temper down. While the demand was outlandish to them, there was a certain amount of courtesy one simply ought to show towards this place's version of the Amyrlin Seat. Because that was _de facto_ what the title of Mother Guardian amounted to.

"I understand that it may sound awkward to you as you are strangers to these lands and to our customs, but we mean you no harm and we will not force us upon you. Yet, what I have come to know about you, you 'Grey Companions' sell your services for coin, is that correct?"

Her voice was serene but with a touch of steel in it. The Mother Guardian was a beautiful woman, even though here and now Tarmion was not certain whether her beauty was due to her power and authority or just natural. Tall and with smooth black hair and a neck that made him think of a swan she appeared to be younger than Nolwenna _Sedai_ by at least a decade, but looks could be deceiving.

"'tis so, Mother," Tarmion responded, his head bowing respectfully. The Mother Guardian was not alone in her large chamber. Six other Aes Sedai were with her and watched them very intently. They all wore the same shawls. If there were still different Ajahs here, neither Tarmion nor Zath had found a way to discern them. They were of different ages and different heights and weights, some appearing plump and homely, others tall and slender, again other smaller and more feminine in their build.

"Then think of it as a deal. 'I scratch your back, and you scratch mine'," she smiled, but her smile did little to hide her worries. "That way, we can both get what we want, to nobody's disadvantage."

"I don't understand why someone with so much knowledge as you undeniable have has to draw on some stranded travellers like us," Yurion muttered petulantly, but kept his voice down this time.

Instead of being angry her response was soaked with a deep sadness.

"So much has been lost, master hunter. It takes all our time and power to just preserve what knowledge we have in our libraries and try to help the people, and we have hardly any time to examine all the artefacts of old that our predecessors have gathered here. It pains my heart to know that the absolution of many of our problems might rest within the tools of old, and that I simply do not have the forces to find that out. But to answer your question," she furrowed her brows and now looked a lot more serious than just a second ago, "yes, most likely we know the things we ask you to train our people. But we know them from books and scrolls, and not from practice. Could you mend a broken bone and cure the red fever just from reading about it in a tome, master hunter? Then why do you presume we could instruct our folk to smelt clean steel, to make tools that last and weapons that will allow us to survive the grolm and the other beasts of this blasted world?"

Tarmion looked to his two companions.

"I see no peril in helping these people," he stated cautiously and held up a hand to stave of Yurion's protests. "We will teach your people, for a time. We will also give you some of our horses so you can breed them as mounts and draught animals for the farmers outside the city walls," he focussed on the High Guardian. Tarmion believed that for at least a moment he could see gratitude in her dark eyes before she regained her composure. Not that the Aes Sedai here were like the ones in the stories. Despite the great reverence the townsfolk had for them, they, as women, had an air of normality about them he believed he would not find around 'their' Aes Sedai.

"I must also insist that you will respect the decisions my people will make for themselves. Many will think it indecent to participate in the Feast of Rejuvenation, and even if one of our women would do so, we do not plan to stay here that long a time," he explained, then added a belated "Mother".

The Aes Sedai discussed his demand among themselves in hushed voices. Zath's ears itched, but upon an inquiring look from Tarmion he only shook his head ever so slightly. In his head, Caraan Tureed was roaring, but he kept the mad voices at bay. After a while, the women settled back into their chairs, and the Mother Guardian addressed them again.

"I agree on your conditions, Tarmion Genda. Those who wish it shall take part in the Feast of Rejuvenation, and your people will teach us all the skills we deem necessary. In exchange, we will help you with your quest to find a way home. Rozenn," she nodded towards a gaunt, grey-haired woman in a dark red robe, "is our Keeper of the Script. She and her disciples will aid you in the library. Your people are free to enter the Tower, but only ten of them at a time. And if the Wheel wills it, we may all find the answers to our questions, together."

xxxxx

Nolwenna lead them back down through the maze of the Tower of the High Guardians after it was all said and done. To Tarmion, the motherly Aes Sedai seemed like someone off whose shoulders a large weight had fallen. Before, she had looked close to what he had imagined an Aes Sedai would look and act like, commanding in tone and presence and somewhat aloof from the rest of them. But now she appeared almost… elated. There were still some questions that lay on his mind, but even though he had just talked to what was the Amyrlin Seat, he felt a strange inhibition to talking to one of the Guardians without being requested to do so.

"Why was the Mother Guardian so insistent on having us take part in the Feast of Rejuvenation, Nolwenna Sedai?" he asked the older woman after having gathered his courage.

If she considered his question insolent she did not show it. She seemed to weigh her words for some moments before she finally gave him an answer.

"Normally, it would be a great honour, for the Feast of Rejuvenation is a day where we forget all our worries and just enjoy life in all its pleasures and facets, and take the children that spring from it as a gift of the Creator," she explained. "But last winter was hard, and our numbers have dwindled. Too many have perished, and the Mother fears we will all perish if we let our blood be weakened any further. I cannot presume to know what the Mother thinks, but I believe she has great hopes in you people. Your knowledge and your presence may very well save us all," she said silently, and Tarmion knew that she meant it.

That night, his dreams were livid and disturbing again, more so than they had been during the past weeks in these strange lands. Marisa was in his dreams, unconscious and bleeding, and no matter what he did, he could not wake her. Even though he knew it was nothing but a dream the sight frightened him to his bones. Zath appeared to him, his hand holding that of Arianna, and both of them were wearing masks of silver. "We are going to hunt," both said, and vanished again. Azral was there, in a room twenty paces wide, held by white marble pillars. He looked into a black orb the size of a man's skull, and he did so with clear, keen eyes. Blue flames danced around his gloved hands, and he seemed surprised to see Tarmion. The vision flickered, and he found himself standing on mound overlooking a wide plain. Down below a woman was wandering through the yellow grass. He wished he could see her better, and space seemed to bend as he changed places in an instant, looking down on her from not even twenty paces away. Her sight made his mouth go dry, for she was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen, her skin as fair as snow, her hair as black as the deepest night, her body and face as if made by the greatest sculptor that ever had lived. White robes she wore, and silver jewellery in the shape of moon and stars. And yet, she seemed distraught to him, as if she was searching a way and not finding it, as if she was far away from home. There was a throbbing pain in his temples. Inside the dream, inside his head, Caraan Tureed was breaking down the barriers Tarmion had erected around him, pushing himself to the front. 'Kill her!' he screamed. 'I _must_ kill her!' Tarmion moaned. The woman turned to him, not seeming surprised in the least for even the brink of a second. His eyes met hers, and it was as if these black orbs watched right into the deepest corners of his soul. Ice filled him. He wanted to scream. It crawled through his veins, to his heart…

Gasping for breath, he awoke. Marisa uneasily moved in her sleep, her closed lids twitching from a nightmare of her own. He still felt a sting in his chest – and the gaze of eyes of the White Lady.

_Regarding the language barreer__: According to the Wheel of Time Wiki, modern dialects have evolved from the Old Tongue (some would say, degenerated), such that a farmer who hears a word of the Old Tongue will think that it sounds familiar, and such that any native speaker of the Old Tongue can decipher the New. _

_As you have undoubtedly noticed, the effects of viewing over distances and travelling as present in _"The Great Hunt"_ are not apparent in these chapters. As Lanfear stated to Loial there, different worlds may have different effects, and some may have none at all besides the 'paleness'._

_The Breaking of the World in "Otherworld" was a far more massive and traumatic event than the one we are constantly reminded of in the books' setting. While the Dark One's backlash scarred the world and destroyed a global civilization, it still left enough of a technology- and population-base for the surviving generations to flourish once the immediate shock and post-apocalyptic horrors had been mastered. And while the Breaking of the World signaled the end of an utopian age, nothing in the books conveys a sense of absolute dread of it other than in rather theoretic terms._

_"Otherworld" got hit a lot worse. As there were no Ogier and no steddings, and therefore no retreats for men who wielded the power, most of them became mad a lot sooner, and the destructive effects of their madness accumulated rather than being stre__tched out over years. The destructions were widespread enough to cause a shift in the planet's axis, completely mauled the continents and the ecospheres and killed off 99 in 100 humans. Right now, there are probably 100,000 people spread all over the globe, and after 3,000 years civilization is just trying to blossom again, and its struggling hard at it. There are only few enclaves like the _City of the High Guardians_; most of the human population will live in neolithic or bronze-age settlements that are reclusive enough to be easily defended against all natural threats and are - by their very cautious nature – non-expansionist entities. _

_The only great asset "Otherworld" can claim is the fact that the Blight does not exist, and that there are no darkfriends left, with Shayol Gul being a peak in an ocean which has not been crossed in three millenia. The destruction at the „Breaking of the World" was complete enough to wipe out beasts of the Dark One, and the thirteen Forsaken were killed in a massive battle with this plane's incarnation of Lews Therin Telamon and his Hundred Companions. Thus the Dark One __there rests safely sealed beneath the icy floods of the Northern Ocean. As for the dreams, I will reveal what is up with them during the next chapter._


	15. The White Lady

**13. ****3 The White Lady**

**Day ****52 After the Transition - The Third Week of Aine in the Westlands**

A procession danced through the streets while flower petals were raining down from the night sky. Everywhere, people were laughing and dancing and drinking and kissing. It seemed as all the gloom that had lay on the city for these past weeks had vanished with the last breezes of cold air from the eastern mountains. Summer had finally arrived in the lands of the High Guardians, and the Red Tower shone in the light of the milky pale stars above. Lo and behold, the Feast of Rejuvenation had come, and the children of the Creator celebrated that they were alive and gifted with the feature of love and compassion. And lust.

Entangled in a close embrace, Tarmion and Marisa danced through the streets. It was as if the hardships of the past months were forgotten. He had never been a good dancer, but the woman with the fiery red hair lead his steps, and he lost himself in her eyes. For the first time since that winter night in northern Altara he felt his sorrows slip away, and forgotten were the nights of restless sleep. He gently pulled her closer and passionately kissed her. Giggling like teenagers, he let her nibble on his earlobe while he caressed her neck and back. It did not matter that they were in public, for it was the Feast of Rejuvenation, and people were doing a lot more there that night.

Soon, the sounds of flutes and lyres and song and laughter had begun to mix with those of love-making, for the Feast of Rejuvenation celebrated not only the fertility of the land, but more so that of the Creators' greatest achievement, his children. Tarmion had left it to everybody themselves to decide what to do. He knew what he wanted, and all that he wanted, all _who_ he wanted was there with him. The one who mattered. The one he loved and wanted to be with. Pulling her with him into a more sparsely lit side street she cooed as his hands ran through her thick curly hair. After kissing her fervently once more, she rested her head against his shoulders. For a few moments they stood there in silence, looking at each other and looking at the stars above. Taken by the magic of the moment, he tilted his head towards her.

"Marisa," he whispered in her ears while stroking her hair, "when we are home again… will you marry me?" He was surprised he had said that, but with every moment since these words had left his mouth he felt more and more that this was what he truly desired. Looking down at her, he saw her eyes glitter with moisture in the starlight, but a wide smile crossed her cheeks.

"Yes," she murmured, "I will. I love you." Her hand wandered under his shirt, and she pulled him deeper into the into the side street. "And right now, I want you."

**A Few Days Later**

The Red Tower had been and remained a maze even to a tracker as experienced and confident as Arianna Malaidhrin. Curiosity had lead her there several times, for there was so much to be found in the massive building. Known to few, her curiosity extended to books and knowledge of the days of yore, and for her the seven platforms in their seven colours offered more than just the chance of the knowledge of a way home. Her sun-tanned face made her look not that dissimilar from the townsfolk, but her height clearly set her apart, for she was six feet tall. With her long and smooth blond, almost white hair bound into a rough braid, she strode through the seemingly endless corridors and halls of the tower. From time to time she met a Guardian, or one of the many servants of the tower, but compared to the size of it all, the place felt devoid of people. Running up a set of stairs, then along a balcony, back down a winding hallway she suddenly found herself standing in a large hall illuminated by the light coming from a great crystal hanging like a chandelier from the ceiling in the centre. Beneath it stood a strangely twisted sandstone pillar.

Curiously, she began to circle the artefact. Looking at it gave her a queasy feeling in her stomach, for no matter from what place she did watch it the top of the pillar always seemed to twist into a different direction. Stepping closer, she first realized how tall it really was. Easily fifteen paces high, it did not by far reach the crystal above it.

'That room must fill the height of a complete platform!' she realized in astonishment. She reached out to touch the smooth-looking surface of the pillar in front of her, but about a foot away from it the air seemed to thicken. Irritated, she pushed her arm in harder, yet when her fingertips touched the artefact, a spark seemed to jump from it into her. In vain she tried to pull her hand back as liquid fire began to sear through her veins. She screamed in pain. Her limbs went into spasms, paralyzing her while the white fire from within the pillar continued to feed from her. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain faded and her eyes regained focus. There were no burn marks on her, her body was unscathed. Instead, a pleasant warmth grew in her, and she imagined she could now see how flows of fire, of light were oozing from the pillar towards her.

"That is enough, child," she heard a gentle voice and was pulled back, her fingers suddenly loosing touch with the twisted pillar. Like in trance, she turned towards the voice and found herself face to face with an elderly Guardian whose expression seemed to combine both compassion and worry. "Did you feel the fire, see the flow?" the Guardian, her name was Nolwenna, Arianna remembered, asked her.

Still overwhelmed by the experience, she did not immediately respond but gave the pillar a longing look.

"Ah, I take that as a 'yes', child. I remember I was much the same the time I was tested. Though, I of course did it under the observation of a dozen of my sisters," she added.

"Tested?" Arianna asked, trying to clear the haze round her mind, regretting that the warmth no also was gone.

"Of course, child. To see if I truly had the spark in me, the spark that lights the light," she smiled. "Only then could I be accepted into the tower and begin my training."

The revelation dawned on Arianna and she moaned in disbelief and yes, horror.

"You mean I can use the one power?" she almost squealed. All the longing was gone, and all the remained was fear. "That I am Aes Sedai?"

Nolwenna frowned.

"That is a very old name that has not been spoken in these halls for a long time, child. In any way, there is no reason to look so horrified, child. Given your apparent age, you must have already passed through the most dire stages those that can channel experience. You can call yourself lucky," she explained, "for there are many that die and burn themselves out without the guidance of a Guardian."

"But I have never channelled before!" she protested.

"Can you be so certain of that?" she inquired with a raised eyebrow. "Have there never been occasions where things worked, worked in your favour even though you knew they simply should not have? A fall were you landed strangely soft even though you should have broken your bones? An arrow that hit a deer even though you knew it should have missed?" Nolwenna smirked, a motion that made her look doubly motherly. "Child, the one power is seldom accompanied by thunder, flash and flame. Now, start breathing again and sit down," she commanded. "I know how consuming this experience is, so heed my words."

The Guardian lead her by the arm to a niche were cushioned chairs stood hidden. Flames lit in the oil lamps on the walls, and she gently stroked Arianna's hair.

"If this was a normal case, there would be no question whether or not you would come to the tower to receive your training," she sighed. "But with you, there are special circumstances." She scowled and shook her head. "No, I am not pleased with that, but I shall be damned if I let a young woman like you run off unprepared."

Arianna looked up to her, afraid.

"Now, don't look like that, child. I'm not a rabbit, and you are not a snake. You are free to go with your people, but if you are not a complete woolhead, you will come here every day to let me teach you."

"You mean, you will not keep me here?" she quipped, then blushed and lowered her eyes for Nolwenna was looking at her as if she was a particularly stupid child that had been caught with her hands in the honey pot.

"Of course not," she sniffed. "Though I presume I could. Now, don't tense again, child! Even though this will require a different approach, I _will_ teach you, and you _will_ listen. The only thing worse than an oblivious channeler is a deliberately unskilled one." With both arms the Guardian pulled Arianna back on her feet. "And the honing of your skills, child, begins tomorrow at dawn."

xxxxx

People were still dancing and singing in the streets even though the festivities had been going on for the better part of the past week. Music played on both, known instruments and such the Grey Companions had never seen before, echoed off the stout walls of the city's walls and houses. Most of the lavish and unbound activities had ebbed off, for the song and feasting had consumed most people's strength a long time ago, but the most livid scenes were still fresh in Aryman's mind.

The closest thing he knew that could compare to the Feast of Rejuvenation was Cairhien during the Feast of Lights. During that two day celebration, all social barriers did fall, and any man might kiss any woman, and any woman might kiss any man. Nobles and commoners alike were out in the streets in various states of undress and drunkenness, and all in all it was one huge pit of debauchery and wild sexual encounters.

For as modest as the townsfolk had been all the rest of the time, this past week had been …as far away from modest as even he could imagine – and Aryman had seen quite a lot in his time! Come midnight of the first day of their new month – for the Grey Companions still followed the Farede Calendar of the Westlands – it all had started, but after the first few days of excessive celebrations most of the Companions had settled back down to their usual menial routines, even though many of the apprentices they had were less than attentive and still smelled off the sour wine people drank here in quantities that astonished even Aryman, who, after all, very well remembered his own former drinking habits. Still, he could not suppress a mischievous smile of his own. Seven days ought to be enough for everybody!

It seemed most of the other Companions agreed with him on that, even though he had not illusions that especially many of the younger men had a hard time letting go of the thought of the women in the streets outside their quarters. Thus were the ways of youth. Not that he had any reason to preach abstinence, for he had also enjoyed the first few days. Later on he had found out that most local women here took herbs to increase the chance of conception. Not that he did mind that. He most certainly had sired a couple of bastards all over the Westlands during his wilder days.

In the square in the middle of their quarters those men who were not teaching and working with the townsfolk were practicing their skills with blade and axe and shield, and the clatter of the blunt practice swords against each other filled the air with the ringing tunes of clashing steel. At the centre he found Tarmion and Zath. The masked man had pit their leader against the silver-haired Arianna Malaidhrin, a young woman easily as tall as he himself, and watched the two of them fight. The man with the auburn beard had the upper hand against her as he was more familiar with a blade and had scores of practice hours to fall back on, but it seemed the fierce woman did well on her own. The Taraboner had watched them battle often during the past weeks, and she was catching up fast – and she was good.

Out of the tail of his eyes he saw Marisa appearing on the edge of the fighting grounds. She seemed distraught to him as she made her way around the pairs of fighting men towards Tarmion.

"What is it?" the younger man inquired when he saw her coming, pearls of sweat glistening on his forehead.

"It's father," her hair was a mess, and she looked tired and alarmed. "I cannot find him! I've looked everywhere inside our quarters, but he's vanished!"

Aryman saw the deepening frown on the captain of the Grey Companions' face. Azral on the loose never was a good thing. The old coot was not truly mad, yet, but there was more than a good chance he's simply do things without losing a single thought about the repercussions. He liked the gnarled farmer, but the thought of a male user of the power still petrified him, even after all those months.

"Let's waste no time, then." He grabbed the practice swords from Tarmion and Arianna and started banging them against each other while demanding everybody's attention from the top of his lungs, demanding to know if anybody had seen Azral Tane.

"Well, he went with the High Guardians," Padran explained, obviously not understanding their concern. "What is it? Is there a problem?" He had been with them since the village of Crickhollowe on the border to Ghealdan, almost a whole year, and had shown great proficiency with spear and sword and shield. "Didn't they tell you?"

"The Guardians?!" Tarmion audibly sucked his breath in.

"Aye, they were asking around for a man that fit his description. You know, missing fingers and such," he added with a shrug. "Light, should I rather have been impolite around them?" he asked incredulously. "It's not like it's a great secret that they are bloody Aes Sedai!" People moaned at the reference to the women of Tar Valon.

"Blood and bloody ashes!" Aryman cursed, his knuckles whitening around the hilts of his heron-marked sword and his long dagger. People had endured and experienced so much, but even mentioning anything related to the power had the chance of getting the most irrational of answers. Which made this all the more severe a matter.

Tarmion pursed his lips.

"How many of them have come to 'accompany' him?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Why does that matter?" Padran raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "It's not like I keep track of…"

"How many?!" Tarmion snapped, the anger in his voice taking Padran aback and silencing the chatter on the square. Suddenly realizing this was no trivial matter to the man he followed, Padran thought it best to be as courteous as possible.

"Forgive me, Master Genda, a handful maybe, or half a dozen. I did not truly take notice of them when…"

Tarmion did not bother to listen to him after he had heard the number. He did not know how he got that knowledge – maybe Caraan Tureed had whispered it to hi in his troubled sleep – but six Aes Sedai were enough to completely block a male channeler from the source, and there was only one reason they had come to get Azral Tane, the man who in everything but name was his father-in-law: to still him.

Aryman knew as much. He grabbed the younger man by the arm and pulled him closer.

"Don't be a fool!" he hissed. "Don't run off on your own!" He raised his voice to address all of them.

"One of us has been taken, and most likely has been harmed!" he exclaimed, causing angry murmurs to spring up in the crowd. "Who is with me to demand our comrade back!?"

"Blood and ashes, Aryman, I like the old guy as much as the rest of you, but he _is_ a male channeler Sooner or later this had to happen, and you know that," Yurion Stormcrow scoffed. "Light, we should be grateful it's getting taken care of by these people without them building a grudge against us. It's not like bringing a male user of the power into a town would get you roses and kisses back home. If people had known what he is, half the places we went to would've driven us out with fire and steel!"

"Yes, and people that have been stilled lose the will to live!" Tarmion snapped, then gave Marisa a reassuring look. "We are _not_ going to abandon him because he was born that way."

"I had a cousin who was stilled when he was sixteen," the people made way for Hoster to speak. The tall Roonheart man who used to laugh so much seemed very melancholic. "He did not live to see his seventeenth nameday. Just withered away, like that," he snapped his fingers. "No matter what, that's not a fate anybody should have to share," he said darkly.

"All of you know who Azral Tane is, and what he is. You may prefer to ignore it, but he still is one of us, of the Grey Companions. We do not leave one of us behind. Our bonds have been forged in battle! Do you really want to abandon one of ours? Then who will guarantee you that you will not be the next, at the next occasion?" he turned to face the rest of them. "We are strong because we stand united. We are strong because we trust the man who has lead us through insurmountable odds and bought us out alive. Those of you who want to stand aside, what does that say about you?"

"Say what you will, but I will not risk my neck against some bloody Aes Sedai!" Marek Reen exclaimed, and there were more voices that agreed with him than Aryman liked.

"Why not?" a voice from back in the crowd yelled back. "After all that has happened, what's the worst that could happen?" someone asked dryly.

"If we only pick the fights that do not count, that makes us nothing but cowards," Zath stated coolly, and those who had objected lowered their eyes under his steady gaze. "Either we stand together, no matter the odds, or we may as well abandon the Companions here and now, for this is no brotherhood out of sheer convenience. So, unless you want to find another score of reasons why you want stand for a comrade of yours, I suggest you grab a weapon and march with me!"

There was a awkward silence, then feet first shuffled, and after that with increasing hurry men began to prepare themselves.

xxxxx

The wide square in front of the Red Tower was empty of townsfolk ever since the Companions had marched there and stood at the foot of the large stairs. So far, there had not been any bloodshed, but everybody knew it was just a matter of time. They had demanded to see Azral, but there had not been any answer. Well, for Tarmion no answer was an answer as well.

[I will make it rain]! Caraan Tureed howled excitedly. [Rain]! Without pause his voice changed to a low chuckle. [Soft and sweet and red their blood shall rain... traitorous whores]! Those last words sounded more bitter than angry, and apparently having said all he had wanted to say the dead channeler returned into the depths of Tarmion's mind.

Hesitantly, Tarmion gave the sign for the men to ascend the stairs to the pyramid's entrance.

Halfway up, however, the two wings of the huge copper-plated gate opened, and out strode a delegation of twelve Guardians. From the colours of the bordures of the tower's platforms to their ageless faces and the rigid, obedience-instilling postures, these women irradiated power.

"Aes Sedai," Aryman muttered lowly as he slowly, almost casually withdrew his cloak from over his sword hilt.

And then, Marisa's father strode out of the twilight of the Tower.

Azral Tane did not look as if harm had been done to him. In fact, the scrawny old fellow looked positively reinvigorated, with a straight back and an absent smile on his face. Content. Whole. The realization was like a slap in the face for Tarmion, and in the corner of his mind he thought he could hear Caraan laugh in bright amusement. Azral's smile was just too similar to the way he himself looked when he had been with Marisa: like a cat sitting in front of a pot of sweet cream.

"Oh, you've got to be bloody kiddin' me!" Aryman growled and slammed his sward back into its sheath, drawing surprised looks from the rest of the summoned Companions in front of the arched entrance. "The old coot got himself some sweet lovin'," he stated in a voice full of disbelief while shaking his head from side to side, then barked a short and relieved laughter.

xxxxx

In his dreams the library was a different place. Corridors that were straight in the waking world here had strange twists that lead to places and platforms that seemed to hover in the nothingness until his brain gave his surroundings a shape, any shape. The lights were off, too. In the actual library of the Red Tower, one could always see enough to read, to find ancient tomes and decypher them, but in the world of his dreams twilight appeared to flow back and forth between the high shelves. He caught a glimpse of white in the distance and quickened his pace. She was here again, making this more than a normal dream. Where she walked strange things tended to happen, things that lasted over into the waking world. He passed by a shelf full of parchments and leather-bound books he remembered he had dug through with the help of one of the Guardians. They were often in these dreams, too, roaming the halls and corridors of this place. Some noticed him, others remained oblivious. This truly was a strange place.

Zath had appeared in his dreams again, too, as had others. He had talked with the halfman, and with Marisa. As it was, both had seen the White Lady repeatedly, if only from the distance. But Tarmion felt drawn to her, even though a voice in the depth of his heart whispered to him that with her staying away as far as possible was the best of choices. And yet, he followed her, even though Caraan cursed and howled and roamed restlessly in his mind, probing the barriers of shear will erected around him. And here, the barriers were always thin.

Even though they had dug through the archives day and night for weeks they had only unearthed fragments of old texts, and all they had achieved was to pinpoint the location of another portal stone. If the next week did not bring anything else forward, that would be where they would try their luck again, as little as it was.

The white figure vansihed behind a corner again, a flash of white silk and flowing black hair. He hurried after her, not really knowing _why_ he did so. He ran after her, around the corner itself – and stumbled to a halt. It was as if he had walked through a doorway, for he found himself on the shore of a deep, black pond. It was night, with stars and a full moon standing high in the clear sky, mirroring on the still waters. Not far away, a grove of dark fir trees stood, and the grass he walked on felt as soft as a carpet.

And on a smooth rock besides the pond sat she.

"You are persistent," she said without turning towards him. "Like sleepwalking inside a dream I have been, my mind numb and unguided, but your perseverance has changed that, Tarmion Genda."

She turned her head, and upon seeing his expression, laughed softly. It was the voice of a woman in her prime, not that of a girl.

"There is little in Tel'aran'rhiod that remains outside my knowledge, especially here," she looked towards the stars above. "You may call me Selene."

His mouth was as dry as ash.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Selene," he managed to utter, feeling everything between stupid and afraid combined. Her silver jewellery glittered in the moonlight which threw shadows over her enticing appearance. She was as beautiful and as deadly as belladonna, and she knew it.

"Sit besides me," she invited him, but it could just as well have been a command. Before he could even think about it, his legs obeyed her, and he sat down on the smoothed rock.

"Do you know the old story of the two giants, Mosk and Merk, who fought with fiery lances all around the world?" she asked him, and a flicker of surprise about the sudden change of topic appeared on his face for just the brink of a moment. "Ah, so it is still known in this day and age?"

He had heard the story dozens of times, told be gleemen just as well as by mothers and fathers to entertain their offspring.

"Why, yes, I know of it. A children's story. What of it?"

"Stories change over time. History becomes myth, becomes distorted for none no longer live who understand the facts, or even the concepts of what had happened. And after that, it becomes legend, and stares us into the eye in the form of lullabies and children's stories." She looked at him, and he could not help him but smile. "Mosk and Merk _were_ giants, in a sense. They were the most powerful nations of the world, and for all the pain and suffering the War of Power brought, and for all the power Aies Sedai of that age wielded, it was miniscule to what Mosk and Merk unleashed in less than half an hour. They burned the whole world to cinders during a single morning, and nearly killed off what little of it had survived in the long dark that followed. Their craftsmen had made weapons that levelled every house in a hundred miles and burned every living soul in that space with fire as hot as the sun. They fought on land, in the air, on the sea - and beneath it. They even fought some battles between the stars before more had been destroyed and lost than they could have ever recovered. Those that were not killed outright died of a wasting sickness, and later of hunger, of cold, of diseases. Mosk and Merk's death, and with them the near extinction of all that lived drove the Wheel to the next age, an age where channeling was discovered. But today, it is a tale about two giants. Do you understand what I try to tell you?" she asked him intently.

"Yes, indeed I think I do," he smiled. "Nothing is what it seems. This is _not_ a normal dream. This world is not the _true_ world. I am _not_ a simple man. And you're not merely a breath taking, beautiful woman named Selene."

[Daughter of the Night], a voice like a fiery whip cracked through his mind. In her slumber, she walked the World of Dreams beneath the moon and stars. But old barriers were weakening...

**Day 71 After the Transition - The Second Week of Adar in the Westlands**

Their departure was celebrated with song and music, and the Guardians had actually travelled beyond the boundaries of their Tower to bid them all farewell. With them stayed four horses and as much knowledge as the men and women of the Grey Companions had been able to teach the townsfolk within the time they had had. When all the farewells had been said and all tears of those that were left behind forever been dried they set out eastwards, along the edge of the mountains on a hardly discernable path that once upon a time had been covered with gravel and even smoothed stones. The City of the High Guardians shrunk in the distance, until it was finally gone for they had travelled that far.

When the sun sunk behind the horizon in the west, they had covered good ground, Tarmion thought, but they all were tired. They had been given copies of an old map that showed the position of the portal stone they searched for, and with such a copy in his hands he fell into a restless sleep.

This time he did not have to search for her, for he opened his eyes standing on the waterfront of the deep, black pond he had seen her when he had slept the time before. Above, the moon and stars shone brightly.

She stepped out of the shadows between the dark trees, an ebony-haired dream in flowing white silk. Her eyes were focussed on him, and he could feel the fear inside him stir for her presence radiated power. And yet, he felt drawn to her.

"Fate leads us to this place again, Tarmion Genda."

"I do not believe in fate, or prophecies for that matter. They are like a drover's scheme as in you never quite get what you've been promised," he dismissed the notion with a wink of his hand while his other hand kept throwing pebbles into the dark pond in front of him. The water ran to its edges in smooth, concentric rings, but it did not stir the grass there at all. "We are here because we both want it."

"The fate of the world has been foretold in prophecy," she reminded him softly, like a patient teacher. Her mind seemed to be absent, wandering. Tarmion unfastened his cloak and placed it beside him, over the rock he was sitting on. With steps that made no sound she slid next to him. Even though he knew it was just a dream he thought he could smell her perfume as if she was sitting on the edge of his bed. It was enticing, clouding his mind, and with a conscious effort he had thought impossible in a dream he shifted his head to the other side. "You have heard of it," she continued. "The _Karentheon Cycle_."

Indeed, he had heard of it, and the thought of it involuntarily made his mouth go dry. The Dragon Reborn and the Second Breaking. Foolish thoughts, but powerful ones nonetheless. He firmly shook his head.

"Prophecies work, for one, because they are orchestrated efforts, be it by the White Tower, or be it by," he licked his lips, "darkfriends."

Her lips curled into an amused smile, and for the first time since she had appeared in his dreams there was an air of awareness to the expression in her eyes.

"They work out because puppet masters spend all their time and effort into prodding a thousand pawns on a giant playing field from one position to the other. And most above all, they work out because people have come to believe in them, not because they are matters of cause and effect," he snorted disdainfully. "They make things...," he frowned, searching for a word, "predictable."

"But whether or not they are true, people attribute certain things to them, and have become to believe that others follow just by themselves. The Stone of Tear. The People of the Dragon. More make believe than fact." She smiled at him, her voice soft and yet regal as that of a queen. "Like sheep, people are comforted by prophecies, even if they at first may be afraid of one phrase or another. They are a great spider web, a spider web woven from lies and half-truths, but they make them feel good."

He took three pebbles into his hand and started to juggle, something that reassured him he was asleep and dreaming. Tarmion knew he could _not_ juggle.

"Men will declare themselves The Dragon, will instil fear for the time they roam the world, but in the end, in their subconsciousness, the people know that _because_ those imposters follow the prophecies, they will be beaten. Do you know why the Stone of Tear has never fallen? It's because people _believe_ it cannot fall. It's because of the ridiculous associations they make."

"The Stone of Tear will never fall until the People of the Dragon come to the Stone," she murmured softly, her eyes looking into the clear sky where stars and a pale moon shone. "But you are not the Dragon Reborn, _allein t'aes mera_."

[No fate? No fate?!?], Caraan Tureed howled, banging against his barriers. It sounded as if a bronze bell was ringing, making his head din.

A dream, he thought. Just a bad dream. Instead of answering her he stared into the black water of the pond. He could _feel_ her watching him.

"I make my own fate," he stated firmly and looked at her as defiantly as he dared.

"Do you?" she tilted her head to one side, musing. "Could you break the prophecies? Forge a destiny of your own into the pattern? Could _you_ take the Stone of Tear?"

Lanfear, he thought, and to his surprise the name carried no dread at all – only a subdued longing he knew could never be fulfilled. He looked down on his hands that had stopped juggling. Without raising his head, he answered calmly, with a feeling of determination greater than any he had ever felt before.

"Yes, I could. For I do not play by the rules of their game. For I make my own rules. For I'm talking about logistics and strategy and preparation, while others talk about prophecy. There is no fortress that cannot be taken," he smirked.

"There is more to fate than prophecy," the Daughter of the Night stated, tilting her black-haired head towards him. "Know this, Tarmion Genda: your own path is paved with sorrow, pain and grief."

Smoothly she slid off the rock and onto her feet.

"You are not the one that will come, the one that will be mine," she mused, more to herself than to him. "But you are an intriguing man, Tarmion Genda." She walked to the other side of the pond, and where black and green trees had stood without blending a hollow with a portal stone appeared. "You have pulled me from my endless, blind journey through the world of dreams, and you know who I am," she smiled as his shock must have been apparent, but there was steel behind that smile. "You are lost, but in a different way than me. I feel that the end of my slumber is near, that the days of Tarmon Gaidon are approaching. The portal stone will return you home," she explained without turning to the looming chiselled rock behind her.

Tarmion could see the symbols clearly, as sharp as if he was standing besides her.

She absentmindedly ran her thumb over one of the larger symbols, a triangle standing on its point inside a circle. "It marks the way home, _allein t'aes mera_," she said, her voice sounding fainter, further away than before. "You are indebted to me, Tarmion Genda. Remember this the day I come to collect it."

He did not look up to her, even though her very beauty drew him in like the scent of a flower draws the bees. Fear crawled like ice through his veins, leaving him sitting there, petrified, staring into the dark abyss that the pond under the moonlit sky had turned into.

"I walk in these dreams," she was moving away from him into the darkness that surrounded the pond, surrounded his own dream, slowly fading away, "but I feel the mist is slowly lifting. Will I remember that I dreamt?"

More than anything else, these words made him shiver.

xxxxx

On the seventh day of their journey their treck moved into a quiet marshland covered in yellow grass and brush. Small groups of crippled birch trees stood in the distance, and unlike the rollings lands they had travelled through along the edge of the great mountain chain, these lands here were devoid of the rich wildlife they had grown used to. Birds with feathers in subdued colours and scrawny brown rabbits seemed to be the only other living beings there.

The road, already existing more in their minds than under their feet, had ended half a day ago, and by now their wagons carefully crawled forward on the unsteady ground. The moist ground made for slippery marshing, and hidden ponds and holes were everywhere, just waiting for a wagon wheel to get stuck in. Off in the distance, unreachable for them because of the moor around them, ruines stuck out of birchtree groves and the moss- and grass-covered ground, remnants of the old world. Hardly a breez was blowing here, and it was as if the weather had no power in these strange farthings except for the encroaching twilight of the afternoon.

By late afternoon – it was hard to tell how late it truly was for the sky was clouded and the light continually dim - they had arrived at their destination. The pillar of the portal stone stood high and straight in a corrie, the coloured steps encircling it having faded to a dull grey of rough stone since long ago.

No words needed to be spoken. Everybody gathered as close to the stone as they could, the wagons and horses having been pulled as close into the hollow as possible. With a silent nod Tarmion motioned Azral to proceed. After a moment of anxious hesitation, the old channeler gave a start and placed both hands against the surface of the portal stone. As if by coincidence, Tarmion touched it too, forcing himself to concentrate on the triangle, the sign _she_ had told him. Caraan Tureed howled inside his head, but this time it was more the howl of a blood hound excited about the prospect of the hunt instead of the indefinate screams of a mad mind. Tarmion did not know which was more terrifying.

Azral embraced _saidin_. Tarmion had no idea how he knew that, but he was certain of it. In fact, he thought he could feel the warmth and the staining of the male half of the power. It left a sick feeling in his stomach. Wind was gathering, howling into the corrie from all sides. He heard sobs in the voice of a child, and it took him a moment to realize that it was all in his head. His concentration wavering for just this moment, he felt the flow of _saidin_ waver. Afraid to fail his comrades, and afraid of the consequences of what might happen if the male half was not channeled here as it had to, he forced himself to concentrate completely on the sign. Still, other pictures appeared in his mind, images of those he loved and cared about. Flicker. No, he had to concentrate on the sign. Flicker. The sign!

The world flickered.

An eerie twilight filled a cavern full of ruins deep beneath the Mountains of Mist. He was a withering husk, his eyes wide open and yet covered with dust, his skin old and yellow like parchment, his body frail and thin. He was not dead – and yet did not live. There was just the glow that called his name, the orb that was all he ever wanted, all his desires, all his dreams, all his fate. When the pale light emitting from it finally failed, flickered, the echoes of thoughts flashed through his longing mind, of a man that had once been him, of a city he had found underground, of a past clouded in oblivion. Lungs that had barely breathed for years sucked in stale air for one last time before the orb absorbed the rest of his mind in its struggle to remain active.

Flicker.

Lyara died in childbirth when their second child, Zandea, saw the light of the world. He struggled to bring food onto the table of their little house at the edge of Grevesbridge, farming after a fashion, with the help of his firstborn, Jerran. His keen mind, however, soon made the Village Council ask him to help them write their letters or advise them in legal affairs. He never really felt at home there, but as the years passed by and his hair grew greyer, his little shack grew and became better, with solid furniture and a stone hearth that kept the whole house warm. The year he was elected Mayor armies from across the Aryth Ocean invaded, claiming to be the heirs of Artur Hawkwing. There was talk of battles that Arad Doman and Tarabon had lost, and that the invaders used strange creatures and even had Aes Sedai on leashes. He bowed to them when they passed through Grevesbridge, and never saw them again. He remarried the day his daughter turned ten, and even though it were not her children, his new wife got along well with them. His son Jerran married the blacksmith's daughter at Bel Tine and built his own house. Tarmion was already grey and stricken with old age when the news reached Grevesbridge that the Trolloc Wars had re-erupted, and the new masters were being swept away. He took sick that winter, and was buried next to his first wife before the new spring came.

Flicker.

Zath laughed, and so did Tarmion as they drank to their successful hunt for the bounty on the head of a brigand and murderer who had plagued Lugard. Whitecloaks stormed the tavern, and both men lunged for their weapons. Zath was a deadly whirlwind, and after six years devoted to a life financed by his skills with a sword, Tarmion was no pushover either. He killed three Whitecloaks before two blades dug deep into his own chest.

Flicker.

He lay in a dark alley in Katar, dying, his skull broken, a knife in his chest. Zath went back to look for him, but the city guard was already there, with the fraudster and his aides accusing him of the murder of Tarmion.

Flicker.

Caemlyn burned on his orders, and so did its Queen in her palace, Elayne Trakand, a petulant girl who had had the gall to claim the thrones of Andor and Cairhien after his agents had killed the weakling Galldrian. The Hunters, his silver-masked elite guard, stood silently around him as he watched the great city being put to the torch while above him the banner of his power, the banner of the black griffin flew in the wind. Long rows of refugees marched out of the city, their meagre belongings packed on carts or on their backs, all under the watchful eyes of his men and the men the King of Ghealdan, his loyal vassal, had sent. The smallfolk had not done anything to him. It was not their fault that their leaders had conspired against him when he had approached them with open arms and a message of peace. Hence he let them go. Those responsible and the ones fighting for them, however, felt the wrath of the man who already called himself _High King_.

At the crossroads at Four Kings he had smashed Andor's and Cairhien's united forces, at Carysford his heavy cavalry had encircled Gareth Bryne's remaining men. They lined the Caemlyn Road now, all six thousand of them, crucified, a sign to enemies at home and abroad. Time and again good intentions had been met with treachery, and the _High King_ of _Alvadindoalcor_ no longer had the patience or good will to be lenient. Nations did not survive by setting examples for others. Nations survived by making examples of others. He knew a better man than him would have done better. He had searched that man, searched that boy, only to find out he after years of searching while he marshalled his powers that the man who once was supposed to become the Dragon Reborn froze to death as a newborn child on the slopes of Dragonmount. He was his own second best choice. _Alvadindoalcor_ was a necessity, not a dream, a nation forged from all lands south of Braem Wood and east of the Mountains of Mist, except Tear.

„What I have to do could be spread to three men's lifetimes and still keep them up day and night," he used to joke, but behind his grim face sorrows kept him awake for long nights. In the West, the heirs of Artur Hawkwing had just landed, as he had foreseen. It was this eerie ability to know things that bound people closer to him, that inspired his troops with almost slavish loyalty. It was because he had abolished servitude and made all people under his rule _caballein_, free men, governed by a set of laws he had codified that his army marched from victory to victory.

In his new capital, the greatest and most modern fortress the world had ever seen since the Breaking of the World, ten thousand men worked in the steel mills and foundries that made the tools that allowed his people and his soldiers to succeed. The _vadin'nor_, his cannoneers, had more than two thousand field pieces in their arsenal, up to ninety-pounders that could smash ten foot strong walls from six miles away. He sent envoys to Tar Valon to propose an alliance. He sent more to the borderlands, promising to come to their assistance when all would be in peril.

He was forty-five when the last Seanchan ship left for their home, humbled and beaten. He was the most powerful man since Artur Hawkwing himself. Siuan Sanche tried to control him, as sly as any Aes Sedai. She failed, and was replaced by a Red. When the Dark One's banners marched out from the Blight, the Black Griffin marched to face them, and behind him marched an army half a million men strong.

The day before the decisive battle, _High King_ Tarmion Genda died from poison.

Flicker.

He married Marisa and settled down with the money they had made. They had five children and lived in a farmstead overlooking the River Erinin, where they grew old together, and Tarmion never wielded a sword again. When he died, his children and two dozen grandchildren mourned their loss.

Flicker.

A rabid bear mauled Tarmion on the second day of his march through Darkwood, and he died, cold and alone beneath a roof of dark leaves.

Flicker.

He was a lord.

Flicker.

He was a beggar.

Flicker.

He fought shadowspawn in the Blight.

Flicker.

He submitted to the Seanchan.

Flicker.

He was murdered in his sleep.

Flicker.

He was a bandit.

Flicker.

He settled down a hundred times with a hundred different women, and had a thousand different children.

Flicker.

He was a soldier in the army of the Dragon Reborn.

Flicker.

He was bound and brought to Tar Valon.

Flicker.

He was a darkfriend.

Flicker.

He loved a queen.

Flicker.

He killed a queen.

Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.

Flicker... .

_Thus is the _Otherworld_ mini-arc concluded. Welcome back to Randland, were dreams do not last, and good does not necessarily come to good people… And yes, I know that canonically Lanfear's slumber was dreamless. Still, this _is_ and AU, so…_

Glossary:

_Alvadindoalcor_ - the Barrier Against the Night

_caballein_ - free men

_allein t'aes mera_ – man with no destiny


	16. Actio Et Reactio

**14. Actio Et Reactio**

**South of the Jehennah Road and the Village of Tallan in Altara**

**The Third Week of Aine****, 994 N.E. (New Era)**

"My thanks for leading me here, child. If you wish so you may leave now."

"Thank you, Mistress Alys," the girl squeaked and curtsied, hurrying back down the slope of the hill, moving back across the plain on the dirt road that lead to the townlet of Tallan as fast as she could without appearing to be actually running. Standing under an overcast sky, the woman called Alys, a petite, dark-haired beauty of indiscernible age clad in travel robes in various shades of blue meticulously examined her surroundings, and with more than just her eyes and ears and sense of smell. The small blue stone fastened on thin golden chains against her forehead glowed in a dim light as she almost unconsciously used the weaves of spirit to survey the scene in front of her, to no avail.

_Saidar_, the female half of the One Power, had not been used here, and to her frustration there were no means to sense the residue of _saidin_, the dreaded male half of the One Power, tainted by the Dark One's counterstroke at the end of the Age of Legends, except with special and rare _ter'angreal_. And even if the woman travelling by the name of Mistress Alys had called one of those her own the chances of it helping her find something would have been slim. She did not want to think about the possibility of a male channeler being the source of the events she had come to investigate, even though it was ultimately her most important quest to find a man who could. A very specific man. A man whose coming had been foretold in prophecy, and whose ascension would destroy the world anew. Finding this man, and guiding him so that he could fight in the Last Battle had been Mistress Alys', whose true name was Moraine Sedai of the Blue Ajah, sole task for the past fifteen years.

And the idea of other male channelers using the One Power in the open would be a distraction from that search, for they needed to be found and stilled. Still, she mused, the Wheel weaved as the Wheel willed.

The place the village girl had lead her to was a crater, at least five paces deep and maybe twenty wide from the outermost points on each side. Brackish rainwater sat in a puddle in the middle of it, and only scarce blades of yellow grass grew around the edges. The soil all around here looked blackened and burnt, as if all vegetation had been flayed off the ground, and it felt rocky and hard beneath the soles of her riding boots.

People stayed away from it if they could. It meant bad luck being there, they said, and anyway, what use was being there now? The fields around the place were ruined, and the grove of oaks just next to it still looked like a festive procession of obscure, grey skeletons. The villagers also claimed it was colder up there, as if the snow and ice of that winter night were still stuck in the ground. Most were convinced that ever since so many people had lost their lives at that crater the place had been cursed. While all that was nothing but superstition, the actual conclusions compelled Moraine to furrow her brows in a deep frown. She fixed her gaze on a group of low trees who carried only the barest cover of leaves.

"I will have to talk to the villagers again, Lan," she said in a conversational tone that would have convinced everyone but him. Through the bond shared by warder and aes sedai he could feel her doubts, and the feeling did everything but putting him at ease.

"What is it, Moraine?" the stone-faced last descendant of the royal line of Malkier stepped out of the underbrush, his colour-shifting cloak billowing in the brisk breeze blowing over the edge of the foothills of the low rolling lands between Altara's great central forests and the more desolate farthings to their north. "This looks like an Aes Sedai's work," he commented calmly. "Most the trees have been aflame, and boulders and debris have been hurled several hundred paces far. A wilder?" The only indication of his curiosity was a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Maybe." Moraine pulled her cloak closer after glimpsing the gathering clouds above. "We should hurry, Lan. I'd prefer being back at the village's inn before it starts pouring," she remarked with dry humour.

Nodding, the stoic man with the weathered face gave the blasted spot a last glance. Birds rose into the air in the grove ahead, but as fast as he had tensed he relaxed again as he saw that it were only sparrows. Turning around, a breeze carried a faint yet biting smell into his nose.

"Wait!" he told Moraine as he descended into the crater and knelt besides the puddle. He gathered some of the water in his cupped hands and sniffed at it, scowling a bit at the smell. Still he took a sip – and almost instantly spat it back out.

"Sulfur," he told the expectantly looking Aes Sedai. "The rain's been washing it from the sides of this hollow," he looked back up to her. "Does this mean anything to you?"

The woman with the commanding presence returned his steady gaze and sighed.

"Let us get back to the village, shall we?"

Tallan was a mile away from the crater, to the north. The Jehennah Road crossed right through it, and its function as a market place for the outlying hamlets and farmsteads had secured it some wealth. Smoke rose from faded red brick chimneys sticking out like stumps from thatched roofs and others made from tarred wooden shingles. North and south Tallan's fields and meadows spread out, divided by brown thorny hedges and low river rock walls. Behind them, northwards, came the downs, while to the south the central woodlands of Altara went further than the horizon.

In the place of some of the houses only rubble and burnt wooden beams remained, and when Moraine and Lan had arrived at Tallan they had not missed the fresh graves at the village's small cemetery. The WHitecloaks had let out their anger on the people of Tallan after _it_ had happened.

The village inn, the "Queen's Honour", was the largest building, as it often was the case in villages away from larger centres of civilization, a strong, woodframed house two stories high, built from washed-out red brick and covered by a rood of red tiles. Milky windows made from leaded glass allowed just enough sunlight inside not to force the innkeeper to light oil lamps and candles every hour of the day. A stout door framed in rusty iron lead inside. The "Queen's Honour" was well-attended, for wheat and corn had already been sowed and pigs and sheep and cattle was looked after by the younger ones. That, and the village wisdom had said it would rain today, so there was no reason why one should not sit together by a mug of ale or a pipe and ponder what news and rumours there were. Moraine would have to talk to that wisdom to see if she could really sense the weather. Most women who could were wilders, more often than not oblivious to the fact that they were wielding _saidar_, the female half of the One Power, to listen to the wind.

Arlyn Sorana was handing mugs over the bar when Moraine and Lan entered the inn. He was excessively tall for someone from Altara, exceeding 6'3", with broad shoulders, thick, greying hair and a close-cropped beard and observant dark brown eyes. He was in good shape for someone of his age and position, and until the Whitecloak incursion this past winter he had been the undisputed source of authority within a range of fifteen miles around Tallan, for he was also the village's mayor. That combination was as pervasive in the Westlands as was the one of carpenter and undertaker, Moraine mused as she stepped into the hazy twilight of the inn's taproom, but thinking about it, the arrangement made a lot of sense to her. As innkeeper, he was wealthy enough to be independent, he was privy to any new outside information and he was always in the know about village affairs for his establishment served as a hub for talk and rumours.

Moraine thought a lot about these 'small' things when she travelled outside the White Tower, a peculiarity she was sure not even her faithful Lan knew of. As a child born into Cairhien's ruling family her training even before entering into the service of Tar Valon had been extensive, and it was this kind of curiosity which had made her the seeker in the quest only three people knew of: Siuan Sanche - the Amyrlin Seat -, Lan and herself. Her old friend from her teenage years as a novice and accepted surely would have had a fishing metaphor ready for that, but with a bit of dry humour Moraine had settled into thinking of herself as a very patient, very intelligent bloodhound. A hunter who could not link the clues was worthless, and one only was good at that if one treated one's mind like a good knife: always sharpened, always ready to draw. She smirked at the thought. She really was spending too much time with Lan, his mannerisms were rubbing off on her.

Arlyn Sorana politely smiled and bowed his head when he saw her enter, but his smile did not reach his eyes when he looked at Lan. The stone-faced warder did not bring forth people's trust, even though they did not know he was _gaidin_. But this was a market place along one of the great, continent crossing trade roads, and most people had enough sense not to get into the way of someone who was clearly dangerous.

"Welcome back, Mistress Alys. I hope my daughter has been of help to the queen's advisor?"

"Thank you, Master Sorana. Your daughter has shown us all we asked for," Moraine answered evenly. "Still, there may be more, and I would greatly value any information you or the other good people of Tallan might give me," she turned halfway to the rest of the taproom. There had been quite the commotion inside when she had first arrived, and most villagers usually did not care too much for the ordinary traveller or merchant. However, Moraine was neither ordinary nor a merchant. Even under her disguise as 'Alys' her presence was commanding and enticing, for even in her travelling attire she looked more like a queen than a normal woman to most the men and boys (and womenfolk) here, and her voice carried that seldom serene grace that made people cling on every word that crossed her lips.

"Meaning no offense, Mistress Alys, but those words would carry more weight if the queen did something to keep Ghealdaner mercenaries and Whitecloaks from Amadicia out of Altara," an old, gnarled men shuffled to the front, a long pipe pinched into the corners of his mouth. "What exactly did you say you were doing here?" he asked politely, but his voice had an edge. Moraine saw that Lan had stiffened a bit, not enough for the casual onloker to notice, but she knew the man like no other.

"I've given advice to the good queen Tylin Quintara Mitsobar," she answered in a calm, melodic tone and withdrew a letter from one of her coat's many pockets. The sealed parchment bore the mark of the two golden leopards of Altara. "Strange rumours about what has happened here have reached us, that is why I have come, good man." It was not a lie. Aes Sedai who had sworn the oaths could not tell actual falsehoods, but had learned over the centuries the craft to twist words and truths so much that the act of lying itself had become pointless. Yes, Moraine Damodred had once 'advised' Queen Tylin of Altara - _advised_ the buoyant woman to keep her hands off one of Moraine's cousins who had been a bit too young to warrant the attention in her opinion. And yes, the letter was from the royal court in Ebou Dar, but it was just a leftover she had aquired in the White Tower's safehouse in Lugard. It was testament to what had occured at Tallan that she had to prove herself like that to gain the acquiescence of the small folk.

The old villager harumphed at the letter, but nodded and silently shuffled back to his place at a table where a mug of ale was waiting for him.

"Well, ask your questions, Mistress Alys," the tall inkeeper stated confidently. "None shall be able to claim the people of Tallan weren't good subjects of our queen," he claimed, looking around the tap room as if to challenge the other villagers.

So far in the north of Altara as Tallan was Moraine doubted even half of the people had known the queen's name before she had mentioned it, but she took the opportunity nonetheless.

"Again, my thanks to you, Master Sorana. Did you notice any unusual men riding with those Ghealdaner mercenaries?"

That caused quite the murmur to erupt inside the "Queen's Honour". Arlyn Sorana handed Moraine and Lan cups of mold wine from a tray and eyed the two of them curiously, a quizzical smile on his lips.

"Why, there were plenty of them, Mistress Alys!" he put the tray away and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "There was the silent guy who never showed his face," he began, nodding at the rest of the crowd in the tap room. "You remember him, the one with the wooden mask. Never strayed far from their leader. Then there was him, their leader. Auburn hair, rather tall guy, pale skin. Looked like someone from a northern nation to me," he shrugged and continued his enumeration. "The innkeeper was strange, too," he frowned. "I mean, he clearly was an inkeeper, knew all the tricks of the trade, but he always ran around armed and armoured as if he was riding into battle. And he _liked_ it that way," Sorana shook his head in disbelief. "'s name was Mallen, ... Mellan... something like that."

Some more were named, among them a 'loud mouthed cut-purse', and Moraine had already hoped to bury her worries when the old villager spoke up again.

"You fo'getting the old coot, the crippled one," he snarled. "Had no ears, and only a couple of fingers left, and always looked as if he was daydreaming the whole time."

Moraine felt Lan's eyes on her, and felt a cold sting in her stomach. She would have to write a letter after all.

**Around the same time in Far Madding**

Ox-drawn carts and wagon trains lead by two pairs of strong horses clustered the wide road across the Goim Bridge, with masses of men and women and children finding their way between the angry shouts and curses of merchants and teamsters. A cold, steady breeze blew from the lake in whose centre Far Madding proudly stood, a walled city, a _true_ city, only accessible over one of three bridges. Marek Reen felt it hard not to continually gawk at the size of it all, and at the seemingly infinite numbers of people all around him who stoically stood in line in the cold to get into the city to peddle their goods or buy some or for a thousand other reasons he himself had no interest in.

Far Madding was easily the largest human settlement he had ever seen, including that City of the Guardians at that place he liked better not to think about. Blood and bloody ashes, why did it have to be so cold here? Where they had come from it had already been early summer! The twists and hoops his mind had to jump through to grapple with that made his head spin. Just thinking about was enough to made his skin crawl. He was a pickpocket, and a liar, and probably half a dozen other not so honourable things he would have to justify himself for the day he died, but he was no darkfriend!

He had been blinded by the thrill of adventure they had promised, and more so by the gold they so freely spent in his company. And in the beginning, it had been great, like a rush. Now he knew how that gold had been earned. Sorcery. Dark witchcraft. The past months had opened his eyes, and only the strictest self-discipline had kept him from running off in the middle of the night after they had returned from... wherever that wretched place had been. Light, might the hand of the Creator shelter him, a male user of the Power!

The thought alone was enough to make him tremble, a notion nobody realized as the crowd slowly moved closer to the Tear Gate across the small plain he had people hear call the Mustering Grounds. Having spent so much time with people who saw it as their trade to besiege cities, he could not help but thinking what a folly such a space was, singlehandedly destroying the advantage of the natural defenses of the lake.

More by being nudged and pushed with the flow than by conscious movement he reached the high gate house, flanked by two towers. Six guards with halberds and high, open-faced helmets watched the slow flood of people with eagle-like eyes, and when he tried to drive his mount forward, two of them blocked his path faster than he thought possible.

"No weapons inside the city walls," the older of the two growled, pointing at Marek's thin-bladed sword.

"Surrender your blade or have it peace-bound," the other one explained in a rather bored tone, but held the reins of Marek's horse tightly.

"What shall it be, lad? Think faster, there are more people than just your sorry arse who want to enter Far Madding!" the other one added, giving Marek and the crowd that had come to a standstill behind him impatient looks.

Reen forced himself to smile and fake a friendly voice.

"Of course, of course, good man. Here, for your troubles," he chucked the older one a copper coin and unmounted to hand over his weapon at the guardhouse under the low protests of the people behind him, muttering about lousy foreigners with their strange customs blocking the way.

There were three Strangers' Markets in Far Madding where foreigners were allowed to trade. They were the Amhara Market, the Avharin Market and the Nethvin Market, named after the three most revered women in Far Madding's history. At the center of the city stodd the Counsels' Plaza and the Hall of the Counsels, but it was the markets where Marek was drawn to. He aptly maneuvered his horse through the city's narrow roads, still marvelling at the number of people crowding every place, and at the rich estates and tall stone houses, many as high as five or more stories. An inn with a stable was not hard to find, even though he had to control himself not to protest to vehemently against the prices the innkeeper demanded. On foor, he found his way deeper into the city, and his mood lightened considerably, for this was a paradise for thieves and pickpockets like him. Soon after he had left the inn he had already 'earned' as much as he had had to pay. Far Madding's air elated him, even though it was a stale stench of sweat and shit and smoke mold into a cacaphony of yelling voices and screaming animals, but he did not forget why he had stolen himself away from their camp almost a tenday away to the east to come here.

He know what he was looking for, and even though he was just a small town swindler and pickpocket he how to spot the signs, or better, people, he needed. A boy of maybe fourteen winters in tattered robes drew his attention as he swiftly noved through the crowd, stopping inconspicuously here and there. Each time he started moving again, the pockets of his ragged tunic seemed to have swollen just a small bit. Marek followed him through the narrow streets. The buildings changed to more simple designs, as did people's clothes. The air here was filled with the rank smell of tannin. The lower classes lived here, but even here men followed the women, which was one of the strangest things he considered to have ever seen (and that was quite a lot by now, he wryly thought). All merchants in Far Madding were women, and men were the ones cared for with allowances or money willed to them. Women held the power in the city in the lake.

Thus distracted he found himself surprised by a group of thugs obviously waiting for him after he turned around the next street corner. The boy he had followed stood behind them with crossed arms. Marek was still thinking whether running or fighting was the better course of action when he felt loosing the ground beneath his feet and was slammed against the wall behind him, the impact pressing the air from his lungs. For a moment all he saw was turning stars. Strong arms grabbed him and the tip of a knife was pressed against his throat.

"Whoy ya following the kid, pretty boy?" a rough voice asked. The speaker smelled of foul teeth and onion and old wine.

Marek thought it was strange he felt so little fear and tried to shake of the daze, instantly regretting the idea as his view cleared and he saw the man who was holding him. He was as ugly as the rest had indicated.

"Speak, pretty boy, or I'll have to work on your face a bit and leave the rest to the pigs," he chuckled, and the others laughed.

With his view and his thoughts clearing, the conscious fear also returned. The brute who held him pressed his paw against Marek's throat while his blade started to play across his face without actually cutting it yet. A savage smile dominated the other man's face, and he felt how the thick hands slowly squeezed his windpipe. Panicked, he tried to go for his knife, but that was in a pocket he could not reach in the position he was being held.

"So, ya don' talk, eh? Shame." The other one seemed to be genuinely disappointed. With a sigh, he increased the pressure.

That brought Marek out of his stasis.

"Long Hern," he croaked. "Long Hern!"

The next thing he knew was he found himself on the floor of a dirty basement, coughing, trying to suck air into his lungs. Straining himself to get back on his feet again, he heard someone approach from behind.

"My, my, my," a deep voice intoned. "If it isn't weasely Marek Reen, or do you like 'Marek the Charmer' better? I suppose so, even though I never understood what people saw in you," the voice mused.

"Hello, Hern," Marek croaked, his throat still raw. "Long time no see."

A thin man, but unnaturally tall, almost seven feet or such, stepped into Marek's field of view. The receeding hairline and deep, hollow eyes gave him the likeness of a corpse.

"Indeed, it is. Though I did not think you'd be so suicidal to actually come to visit _me_." It sounded genuinely surprised.

Marek flinched.

"I had nothing to do with what happened four years ago. It was just bad timing that the town's guards got to you that early. And," he added, trying to sound confident, "would I come here if I was guilty?"

"Probably not, even though your charms were always sharper than your wits, Reen," the other conceeded dryly. "And look at you. You're no better off than when we last saw each other," Long Hern shook his head.

"Maybe that's about to change," Marek answered calmly, massaging his neck. "I'm here on business, Hern, and I wouldn't have come here if there weren't some persistent rumours about whom you're working with from time to time."

The other man's eyebrows rose in surprise, if just for the brink of a moment.

"Leave us alone," he commanded calmly, and Marek heard the sound of shuffling feet and that of a door clicking shut.

"Your word really carries weight here," he noticed once they were alone. "What about the guards?" he inquired. "I saw plenty of them in the streets."

"I like to leave them with the impression that they actually control the Eastside. Like that, they are easier to handle and don't stick their noses into my affairs," Long Hern explained matter-of-factly. "So, what business do you have that needs involvement or knowledge of the White Tower?"

**A Tenday Later**

**The Royal Palace, Caemlyn, Kingdom of Andor**

The rose gardens of Queen Morgase's palace were the one place were Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan allowed herself to loose a bit of the strict composure that usually dominated the advisor of the throne. The place was empty during this time of the day, the royal siblings being confined to their studies, allowing Elaida to _think_ without outer disturbances. It was still rather cold outside, with the first blossoms only starting to slowly spread among Andor and the central lands, but she did not mind, for she tended to the royal gardens in her own way, using _saidar_ to ensure the flowers and trees blossomed and filled the air with the sweet scent and the buzzing of bees.

However, Elaida Sedai did not go to the gardens to daydream. Her daily duties commanded her to advise the Queen of Andor on matters of state policy, so it was times like these were she could contemplate what strands the Wheel was weaving into the greater pattern. She had the seldom talent of foretelling, allowing her to predict certain aspects of the future, even though she could not influence the talent itself. It was because of a foretelling she had become advisor to Morgase Trakand, having predicted that the royal line of Andor was critical to the _Last Battle_.

The approaching laughter of children rose her from her thoughts. She scowled at the disturbance, shortly contemplating whether to reprimand the coming heirs of Andor, but decided against it. Bringing up Gawyn and Elayne and even stoic Galad was Morgase's task, not hers. Quietly, she slipped from the gardens before the children could notice her, and returned to her own quarters on silent feet. The servants in royal livery that passed her by bowed deep at the sight of the royal advisor, but Elaida ignored them as if they were part of the furniture.

Her rooms were lavishly decorated and furnitured themselves, with traces of gold and marble shining through from every direction. She found her chambers untouched, the way she had left them - except for the new, sealed parchment on her desk. Information had a way of finding a path to her. That also was an advantage of being Morgase's advisor, for Caemlyn stood at the junction of five wide roads that lead to every corner of the world, and every news for the White Tower not sent by pidgeon invariably landed on her desk, here.

Only a few days past she had gotten into the possession of a letter from Moraine, one of the Blues who she hated with a passion, but who - at least this time, it seemed - had dutifully reported findings that alluded to a male channeler on the loose in northern Altara. It still lay on top the other papers. The servants never came near the desk, at least not those who knew what was good for them, but Elaida had people who she trusted enough who delivered her the letters and packages that usually covered the polished wooden plate.

The newest bore the mark of the safehouse in Far Madding. She broke it open with a fingernail and flew over the lines one time, then another. The contents were only rumours of the sorts she got half a dozen times each tenday, but there was a name in it that sounded familiar. Having a hunch, she grabbed the letter Moraine had sent from Lugard, and a smile crept on her face. Both pieces of paper featured one name: Marek Reen.

She grabbed ink and quill and paper and immediately started to write. Her sisters in Tar Valon needed to know of this...

**Two Days Rides away from the Outfall of the River Iralell into the River Erinin,**

**Western Haddon Mirk**

**The First Week of Saven, ****994 N.E. (New Era)**

They all had gathered on the small plain along the river Iralell they had started to call the village greens. Two hundred people, and all had done their feastday clothes. The smell of honey and pepper cakes, of roast meat, of stew cooking in a dozen pots filled the air while a subtle layer of scent from flowers and the blossoming apple trees along the river shore lay over it all. The simple log houses they had built for themselves along the ridge above the Iralell at the edge of the large forest that nowadays constituted Haddon Mirk were all ornated with banners in rich colours. And in the sky above them, the sun shone brightly and far and wide there was no cloud in sight. It was as if the Creator himself had chosen to help them this day.

They were all here, today. All his friends and companions who had gone through the heat of battle and the cold of the deepest winter together, and when he looked into their faces and their families' faces he saw happy people, people that rejoyced _with_ him. Zath stood besides him in his best robes, without his mask, with Arianna at his side. She wore a deep grey fitting skirt which, in combination with her silvery hair, made her look almost otherworldly. But she faded in comparison to the woman that was lead through an alley in the crowd by the hand of her father. Azral walked as straight as he could and wore his best clothes, and for once the old man looked as proud and lively as everybody else did.

Marisa Tane was a beauty in red and white, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest so hard as if it was trying to burst out.

The crowd formed a wide circle around them, and out of it stepped Mellen Ollon, wearing a very formal, high collared green coat and a wide silver chain he had last worn when he had still been a village mayor.

"We are gathered here today to witness the marriage of this man and this woman, according to good order and all good customs, and under the authority given and the shelter provided by the palm of the Creator himself," he began, silencing any talk among the villagers and companions. "It is by its nature a state or giving rather than taking, of offering rather than receiving, for marriage requires the giving of one's self to support the marriage and the home in which it may flourish," he gave his wife a short nod and a smile. "If any person can show just and sufficient reason why these two persons may not be joined together in matrimony, let them now declare their reasons, or else from this time forward, keep their peace," Mellen called out. Silence was his answer, and he continued with a wide smile. "Then so it shall be!" he exclaimed, streching both his arms skywards before place a hand on both their shoulders. "Lad, is it your desire to marry this woman here next to you?"

Tarmion simply nodded, almost too excited to talk coherently.

"Then you may now give your vows," the fomer innkeeper told him calmly. "Take your time."

Tarmion took a deep breath, then turned to face his bride. Marisa smiled at him, and he returned the sentiment. He could see tears in her eyes.

"I, Tarmion Genda, take you, Marisa Tane to be my wife, my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our union and love you more each day than I did the day before. I will trust you and respect you, laugh with you and cry with you, loving you faithfully through good times and bad, regardless of the obstacles we may face together. In the presence of the Creator, our family and friends, I give you my hand, my heart, and my love, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live."

Marisa replied the vow in a breathless voice, and Mellen took her hand and placed it into the palm of Tarmion's.

"You may now kiss the bride," he nudged him, and the people started to cheer as their lips met.

After a long, passionate kiss, Tarmion turned to face the rest of the people. From the corner of his eyes he could see movement on the slope behind him and frowned just for a moment. Riders? Strange. He forced his attention back to his friends, and with a wide smile started to adress them.

That was when the first arrow struck a man. Everything went really fast from then on. Suddenly, there were dozens of arrows in the air, and people fell and screamed. He could hear the clatter of hooves, and felt the ground tremble. Marisa's eyes were full of fear, and he pulled her closer, as if to shield her from the arrows with us body.

There was a sharp crack, like that of a whip, and he felt intense heat brush his skin as he was lifted into the air. Lumps of rock and soil raced through the air like arrowheads. His grasp on Marisa's hand slipped, and he tumbled through the air like a leaf on the wind. The ground came nearer, but his arms did not obey his commands. The last thing before it went dark around him was the sound of cracking bones when he hit the ground.

Zath frantically searched the battlefield. Arianna was with him, he thanked the Creator for that. There was a wide gash along the right side of her face, and her eye was a red mass, but she was alive, and that was all that counted.

"I should have felt it," she muttered through clenched teeth, pressing a blood-soaked piece of cloth against her wounds.

"There's nothing you could have done," he rebuked her, instantly regretting his tone. He squeezed her hand to comfort her and pulled her further along in his search.

"Over there!" she shouted out, pointing with her free hand. "Marisa and Tarmion."

He followed her outstrechted arm and abruptly stopped in his tracks when he saw them.

"Sweet Creator, have merci!" he hissed.

**Several Days to the ****Northeast**

The old man sat cross-legged in the back of a horse-drawn cart with high wooden wheels. Three sisters watched him all the time, making sure he was severed from the source so that he could not reach for _saidin_, the tainted male half of the One Power. He had cried, silently, in the beginning, but had not challenged them or tried to defy what they did. In fact, they had just picked him up from the field of battle where he had stood with empty eyes before they had retreated. Now, days later, he mostly just sat there, large empty eyes staring ahead, not even bothered by the flies his sweat and stench drew in.

Benara Sedai was the youngest of the red sisters in the group, less than five years away from the day she had taken the Three Oaths, and this had been the first time she had ventured outside the walls of Tar Valon to find and bind a dreaded male channeler. The journey had been long and rough, and the end, as she saw it, dissatisfying. She wrote it off to youthful folly, but she had thought, or better, expected - _hoped_! - that what they did was more, well, _epic_. Oh, yes, they had come down on those people with fire and flashes and half a company of Tar Valon guards racing down the hillside in a horseback charge, but they had crashed what now looked to her like a wedding ceremony not unlike the ones she had witnessed when she was a youngster herself, before she had been taken to the Tower. On top of that, not only had the man done nothing to attack them, he hardly looked like a foe from the stories she had devoured when she had been younger - and which she still did in her little spare time. After all, except for Cairhien's the White Tower's bibliotheque was the largest in the known world!

No, the man she had to guard was a scrawny old fellow with hollow cheeks and clear signs of the rot the taint of the male half carried with it. His ears looked like the had been cut off after a bad case of frostbite, none of his two hands still carried all its fingers, and when he walked he did so with a small limp.

And above all, he looked so sad. Empathy was not a quality nurtured in sisters of the Red Ajah, but Benera was still young, but he reminded her of her own grandfather, a goodhearted family man who had sung songs with her and let her sit on his lap and made her little animal toys from wood when she had still been a child...

The memories threatened to sweep her away, and she felt her flow of saidar ripple. Briefly, the eyes of the two other sisters watching the man shot her dark glances, and Benara scolded herself for a foolish child, her cheeks reddening. She had a duty here, blood and ashes, she...

A chill ran down her spine, and unwantedly her eyes shot up, to the face of the male channeler in front of her. He was looking at her, and his eyes were alive.

Azral Tane smiled, turning his head to look south. The old man's voice was strong and steady.

"There's a storm a'coming."


	17. Evil Be Thou My Good

_The end of the last chapter overlaps - time-wise - with this one._

"_**Know this, Tarmion Genda: Your own path is paved with sorrow, pain and grief." - Lanfear**_

**15. Evil Be Thou My Good**

**The Second Week of Saven, ****994 N.E. (New Era)**

"Hush now, he's waking up," a voice on the edge of his hearing urged. There were some shuffling feet and the sound of people clearing their throats. His eyelids rose, slowly, ever so slowly. They felt so heavy to him, almost as if someone had bound iron weights to them. When they had finally opened, he was looking against a wooden floor interspersed with thicker wooden beams. No, not the floor, he corrected himself. The ceiling. He tried to turn his head, but something held it in an unwavering grasp.

"Where...?" he managed to cough out hoarsely. His voice was so weak. Light! His mouth felt he had swallowed sand, so dry it seemed to him. "Water," he croaked weakly.

There was another shuffle again, this time the one of a dozen feet trying to do the same thing at once. He heard the sound of water being poured, and it made him lick his lips. His tongue was dry, too, but not as dry as his cracked lips were.

Aryman's worried face appeared in his field of vision. The Taraboner leaned down to him and placed a cup against Tarmion's lips. He eagerly emptied it and demanded more. Aryman returned with another cup, but this time he only gave it to him in steps and not as a whole. There were some old, almost healed bruises on the man's face.

Tarmion closed his eyes again and breathed heavily. Light, just drinking had exhausted him! Calming himself, he tried to steady his breathing. After he had caught his breath he spoke again.

"Where are we? What happened?" his voice was still weak, but at least it no longer sounded as if a crow was croaking. He tried to push himself up, but found that his arms did not respond. Damn it, I _am_ weak, he cursed in his mind.

"You don't remember?"

That was Mellen's voice. Good, brave Mellen. The deadliest innkeeper ever. Good that he was there.

"A blur...," he answered groggily.

"We were attacked," that was the deep voice of Zath. "Aes Sedai, by the looks of them and the men riding with them. They took Azral."

Tarmion did not have to see his friend to see the scowl on his face. But someone was missing. Someone…

"Marisa?!" he suddenly had a lump in his stomach. "Are you there?"

"She is nearby, outside," Mellen answered him, but there was so much sadness in the older man's voice that it only increased his anxiety.

"What is with her?" he demanded to know, but Mellen just continued as if he had not heard him.

"There is a nice apple tree outside, on top of the hill. It's blossoming now. Marisa's always liked blossoms, and the sun in spring. I bring her flowers every day...," his voice faltered.

"She was ridden down, like you, and took a grievous wound to the head," Aryman explained somberly. "We tried everything in our powers, to no avail, old friend," for the first time Tarmion could remember the halfman hesitated. "I'm sorry. She died the same day."

Tarmion felt icy fingers grasping for him, and tears welled in his eyes.

"We buried her beneath the apple tree, in a field of wild flowers," he said quietly. "We all knew she was... fond of flowers."

"We feared we would have to bury you besides her, lad," Mellen chimed in just as quietly. "It's a miracle you are still alive."

"Others might call it a curse," the Taraboner murmured.

"Aryman!"

"Oh, don't patronize me, Mellen! He has a right to know it."

"Know what?" Tarmion asked weakly with a new sense of dread. He could almost physically feel the hesitation that had lowered over the chamber. "Know _what_?" he demanded again, more fiercely this time.

It was Mellen who finally spoke.

"You were as grievously wounded as your wife, lad," he explained slowly. "You broke your spine."

"My spine?" Tarmion yelped. He tried to push himself up again, only to not only feel his limbs not react to his commands, but to feel nothing at all. Cold sweat started to pour, and panic grabbed his heart. "Oh please, Light, everything, but not that!" he muttered almost inaudibly.

"Yes, old friend, your spine."

That was Zath's voice, and the masked face appeared in his field of vision almost the same instant as he had started to speak. If he had needed any kind of confirmation of his state, his friend's incredibly sad voice had just given it to him.

"You can't move your legs and arms anymore. We've tried all we could, but those kinds of wounds...," his voice trailed off. "I am sorry, old friend, but you will be a cripple for the rest of your days."

The words hit him like bricks, and there were voices of protest lambasting Zath for his lack of tact, but Tarmion only felt them on the edge of his hearing. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart. He felt tears running down his eyes, tears for Marisa, whom he had cost so much, and who had payed the final price for being at his side. Not for the first time he felt that he was a bane for the people who loved him, but this time the feeling was stronger, much stronger than it had ever been before. So many people had died through him, died _for_ him. So much misery he had brought upon good and decent folk. So much misery...

They were still arguing when he turned his concentration back from his inner contemplations to them.

"I need some rest," he said weakly, and the clamour broke off immediately.

"Yes, take a nap, lad," he could see Mellen nod with his inner eye. "Come on, folks, places to be."

"And I want to be bedded so that I can see her," he demanded a little bit stronger. He could still feel the wet tears on his face. Strong hands grabbed the frame of his bed and turned it around, stuffing pillows underneath him so that his chest rose up a bit.

Azral opened the shutters of the windows, and a soft breeze blew into the chamber.

"Be well, boy," Mellen placed a hand on Tarmion's head and put so much enthusiasm in his voice that Tarmion almost believed that he could, but the older man's eyes betrayed him, and so Tarmion just nodded with his own eyelids. "Let's go, let's look after the others."

They started to leave, and Tarmion called out after them.

"Zath, please stay."

A door was closed, and it was quiet in the room, but Tarmion knew he was not alone.

With the halfman, he did not even have to see or smell or hear him to know he was there. He doubted that after all the time they had spent together he would have even needed to know the diluted aura of dread Zath wore like a cloak to know that the man was in the room with him.

"I am so sorry," Zath said in his baritone voice. He spoke much softer than he had done so before. "So, so sorry," he insisted.

Tarmion looked outside. It was cloudy, but the air was warm. Maybe two hundred paces away an apple tree stood, it's branches and twigs all a sea of white blossoms, and beneath it a simple headstone stood. He imagined he could smell them, the flowers and apple blossoms, and hear the sounds of the hundreds of bees that must be buzzing from one flower to another. The shape of a cat lay on top of the stone, enjoying the warmth of the sun.

Yes, she would have liked that. He imagined her standing in a field of flowers, white roses and blue tulips in her red hair, and new tears swelled in the corner of his eyes. He moaned in agony and wanted to swipe the tears away, only to be reminded by his body that he no longer could. The dam broke, and he cried. For her, for all that could have been, for the friends he had lost, and for himself.

When he had no more tears to cry, Zath sat down on the bed beside him.

Tarmion looked outside again, up towards the apple tree.

"This is no life," he finally stated weakly.

"No, it isn't," the halfman agreed with him after a moment of silence. "You know I would do everything to help you."

"Yes, I know that, old friend. You always would," he gave him a sad smile before looking back outside, to where Marisa was, to where he wanted to be, with her. "Give me a day to make my decision."

"Yes, take all the time you need, old friend. I will come to you again when you are ready."

When he closed the door, Tarmion was certain that, for the first time, he could see tears in his old friend's eyes.

xxxxx

Mellen and the others waited outside the flat wooden building.

"Did you tell him?" the former innkeeper wanted to know.

Zath shook his head wearily.

"No, I did not. And he will_ never _find out," he stated more forcefully, looking around. "He's a good man, a damn good man. He's earned himself some dignity. Let him spend what time he still has like that. He's already lost enough. Let him keep that little dignity. That's the least we owe him."

Aryman looked at the wine in his hands, emptied the mug and poured it full again, shaking his head.

"Fortune, prick me. It's all going down the pan. Damn flamin' shame, that's what it is." His speech was already slurred. "Boy deserved better than that... ."

The men silently agreed, and went their ways to look after the other survivors. Tarmion Genda had lost his love, his health and his will to live. It would have been the peak of cruelty to tell him he had lost his unborn child as well.

xxxxx

So helpless, he thought. Not even infants were that helpless. At least they could struggle and roll around. Bereft of any kind of movement, he soon dozed off into a light sleep. He did not know whether he was still asleep or awake again when he felt the door opening and someone entering. And then there she was. Tall and beautiful and dark as the night, wrapped in white silk with the moon and the stars as her jewellry. Lanfear looked down on him, her face a mask he could not read. He felt his heart pound for s few seconds before it calmed down again. Even this seemed to tire him.

"I failed you. And now I lie in my own piss and shit and cannot even look you in the eyes." He focussed on the fresh grave outside. "I would have been contend with that, with a person that loves me. I would not have needed more."

"I told you that was not your path," she told him not without compassion. "And your path is far from over."

He looked down at himself and frowned.

"I am useless now, mylady. Broken. Whether this is a dream or the waking world, once you have left me I will ask a friend for a lst service of mercy," he told her, but she just smiled at him quizzically.

"The gifts I bestow come with a price," she looked directly into his eyes. "_Everything_ always has its prize." Her voice was calm, but Tarmion could feel the cold sweat on his forehead that her presence caused – and in his mind, Caraan Tureed raged and howled. "I can give you what you seek, and in due time, I may come and ask for a favour in return. But consider this: if I restore you, who will you be? The man in this bed, or the man in your head?"

His eyes must have had widened in shock like saucers because she smiled down at him in dry amusement.

"Oh, I felt him the first time we met each other. But enough of that." She leaned over him, black hair falling down to his face, her perfectly shaped body so close to his – and yet so far away. The skin on his forehead turned dry and cool when she placed her hand on it, and he saw, but did not feel the hand she placed on his chest. Her perfume was in his nose, an intoxicating scent, and her hands felt as if they were gloved in the finest silks.

She smiled at him.

"Heal, Tarmion Genda," she murmured softly – and fire seared through his vains.

He wanted to scream, wanted to wrench himself from her grasp, but her pale hands held him firmly down. A raspy rattle followed by a thin moan escaped his throat while icy needles pierced deep into his mind, breaking down boundaries, weaving new paths, restoring old ways. His eyes rolled back into his skull as his head stirred. More fire raced through his body, touched places he had thought lost to feeling, seared them with liquid flames. He was dimly aware of the chilling sounds bones and joints made that cracked back into place as his whole body stiffened. His heart pounded, trying to beat its way out of his chest, and every pulse gushed new flames through him. Every sinew of his body felt strained to a point far above what the Creator had made them to withstand. Helplessly, seized by convulsions, he thrashed around while he felt her presence waning.

"Remember I will come and demand a favour," her voice still hung in the cabin's air. "Remember, _far cab'allein moridin_."

xxxxx

He stood beneath the apple tree and looked down on the fresh grave mound. There were flowers all over it. She lay there, and all he could do was stare! In pain and tears he reached out with the power, reached with strands of spirit through the moist earth, full of worms and beetles and maggots… and stopped. She was there, silent, peaceful, almost as if she was just sleeping. _Saidin_ whirled in him, making him see her as she lay there. Caressing, strands of spirit touched her, reached into her, found her heart… and found the other, smaller one, too. For long moments he just stood there, petrified, ice running through his vains. His hands started to tremble as fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. His love, his _child_… a choked moan left his throat, almost like that of a wolf – and something within Tarmion Genda broke forever.

Fiery rage consumed him while hate, as cold as the darkest winter night, took over his thoughts.

'She had nothing to do with this. She hadn't done anything. _We_ hadn't done anything. Damn them!'

[_They left us to die. Their betrayal sealed our doom! The Light shall burn them. Damn them_!]

They killed her, not me!

[_They killed her, not me_!]

And for the first time, both men agreed on one thing, and spoke with one, booming voice.

"They. Will. Pay."

Caran Tureed reached for _saidin_, and the world shifted.

xxxxx

Sedaira Sedai and her four sisters of the Red Ajah usually travelled without men accompanying them, but the Amyrlin Seat had been very clear this time that no unnecessary risks were to be taken. Siuan Sanche had obviously overreacted, but what else was to be expected of a Blue. The Red Ajah was bound to gentle men who had the ability to channel, but a dead channeler was just as good in Sedaira's eyes. Each and every one of them wore the Breaking of the World inside of them.

She sighed. That one had died along with some of his companions before using the tainted _saidin_, and the others had taken their heels into their hands after Nemara had sent a flash directly into their midsts. Still, a dozen men in the colours of Tar Valon were dead or in immediate need of care. The black haired Aes Sedai had received reports about Whitecloaks in this area, and she felt no urgency to meet the fanatic Children of the Light. Once Sedaira had seen that the channeler's neck had been broken, she ordered her forces to retreat.

They had travelled for two days since then, leaving the borders of Amadicia behind them, riding northeast into Altara. Half an hour ago the hundred riders under the banner of Tar Valon had arrived at a small village in the middle of the Gront Forest. The twenty something houses were all abandoned, hastily left sometime during the past days, but the three warders that accompanied Sedaira and her sisters – they were not _their_ warders, the Red bonded no men – had found no signs of danger in the vicinity. The senior Aes Sedai had had her force dismount so that their dead could be given a decent funeral and that she and her sisters could care for the wounded. Some were feverish and had deeper wounds than the Aes Sedai had realized when they fled from Amadicia.

Looking after the wounded, she had no idea how much time had passed when Amon Ragir, a gaunt warder with grey whiskers and almost black eyes, appeared in the doorframe of the house she had ordered the wounded into with a distraught look on his face.

"Sedaira Sedai, you should take a look at this," he insisted. She knew enough of warders to recognize when they were serious about something, and Amon Ragir was an experienced fighter. She did not even need to follow him to the edge of the village to understand that something odd was going on. She could feel it, and she could _smell_ it. Howling wind flapped her cloak against her face, but she ignored it.

"Look, something's driving animals from the woods," the warder shouted, pointing at deers and boars and rabbits and even a lone wolf hurryring out of the woods towards the village, while hosts of crows and smaller birds were shrieking and rising into the air.

The Aes Sedai sensed all that only like through a thick fog, her mind revolting against the massive waves of residue of _saidin_ that broke against it.

"It's burning," she heard herself say. "Can't you smell it?"

The warder looked at her, uncertain what to do. But she remained motionless, her mind tracking the tainted power. He climbed up the thatched roof of the nearest building besides him to get a better view.

"There is smoke coming from the woods all around us," he yelled towards the others as much as to Sedaira. The other soldiers and Aes Sedai had already sensed that something strange was happening. Now they gathered in the middle of the abandoned village, shield to shield, placing the channelers into their midst behind a wall of spears and steel.

Towering flames ate through the brush and the woods around the village with frightening speed, wood and grass and leaves burning intensely after the first dry and warm week of this spring, filling the air with the sound of loud hisses and cracks. And then, a voice thundered over all of it.

_"I. AM. THE. FIRE! HEAR. ME. ROAR!"_

And a man in tattered robes appeared from the forest, _hovering_ above the ground, flames seeping from his hands like liquid fire. The Aes Sedai reacted swiftly.

Weaves of spirit and air and fire rolled against him, hammered against his defences, hammered down on him – and did nothing. The air around him flickered from the heat of the fire that engulfed the woods all around him, all around the village, the flames sucking in air with a howling whirlwind. Another cacaphony of weaves crashed into his – Caraan's ? - weaves and he – they ? - started to chuckle. He lashed out with earth and spirit, as if he was cracking a whip, cleaving a house in half and leaving only a cracked trench in his wrath's wake. White flashes lashed accurately down from the sky and found the soldiers in their surcoats with the flame of Tar Valon on them and turned them into very real flames. A warder stormed towards him through the heat, his gaunt face a mask of grim determination. He swatted him aside almost casually with an intricate weave of spirit and air that broke every single bone in the man's body and hurled him into the raging firestorm without a second thought.

He saw Azral sitting silently on a wagon without horses and wove a thick cocoon of spirit and cold air around him, mangling half a dozen guards in the colours of Tar Valon in the process.

Caraan Tureed and Tarmion Genda grinned as they walked down the path towards the village. The flames followed them from all sides. A dozen bright flashes cracked into the ground where he stood, making to make one's flesh crawl. Caraan Tureed started to laugh. The whip lashed out again, shattered houses and threw animals and men alike through the air as if they were mere toys. He turned around a corner and found himself face to face with two warders who stood between him and an exhausted woman. Swords firmly in their hands, they simultaneously charged him. More irritated than afraid he took a step back. However, his hand shot forward, his fingers spread wide, and with a stomach turning crack both men simply slumped to the ground as if their bones had turned into jelly.

A furious assault of blows and fireballs forced him to steady his footing. His eyes looked up and found the Aies Sedai responsible for it. She was beautiful, and young for someone who wore the shawl, her face pale from exhaustion despite the heat all around her. She leaned against the ruins of a cottage, her limbs shaking. A small figurine had slipped from her feeble fingers and fallen to the ground. He could feel how she tried to grab and hold _saidar_, the female side of the power, and felt how she failed.

There were tears in her eyes.

"Futile, so futile," Caraan Tureed and Tarmion Genda commented in _both_ their voices. "I sat besides Lews Therin Telamon in the Hall of Servants. I fought Sammael on the slopes of Shayol Gul. I was there when the bore was sealed, and the Dark One imprisoned again," he laughed and shook his head. "And you _children_ challenge me to battle? Me?!" his laughter turned into rage, and a wave of almost liquid fire rolled over her and the ruins behind her.

Weaves of air lifted him off the ground and let him hover above the hell he had created. Beneath him the bodies of men and women threw themselves around in their panicked death throes, fire burning flesh, steaming air boiling skin, hair blazing like torches.

He laughed, laughed so hard, so loud, laughed with the thunder of a thousand voices screaming his grief and pain into the world until tears trickled down his cheeks, until the flames engulfed him and turned to tears to ash and dust - and the world shifted again.

Azral emerged with him back at the place he had started from. It was already getting late, with the sun hanging low above the horizon in the west. He was almost completely naked, his hair and eyebrows seared by the intense heat, Azral looked at him with a curious expression on his gnarled face, resting his least crippled hand on the headstone of Marisa's grave.

Tarmion knelt down besides her grave, silent tears in his eyes.

"I knew you never wanted to rely on anyone but yourself. Just this once, you should have... ."

His voice trailed of as he placed a spray of white roses on Marisa's fresh burial mound, and hoarsely started to sing.

_Words like violence, break the silence,_

_come crashing in, into my little world._

_Painful to me, pierce right through me,_

_can't you understand, o my little girl ? _

_All I wanted, all I needed_

_was here, in my arms._

_Words are very, unnecessary._

_They can only do harm. _

_Vows are spoken, to be broken._

_Feelings are intense, words are trivial._

_Pleasures remain, so does the pain._

_Words are meaningless, and forgettable_

_All I wanted, all I needed,_

_was here in my arms._

_Words were very, unnecessary._

_They can only do harm._

He did not remember how long he had knelt besides her grave, humming softly, talking to her, but when a cold wind stirred the leaves above him, driving grey clouds heavy with rain down from the north, he rose, caressing the headstone softly, as if it was a living thing. The life he had wanted, had dreamed of was gone, had died with the woman he loved. He felt empty inside - and angry, so very angry. Frowning, he turned his head into the chill wind as if to cool off his temper, but inside he could feel it boiling, could feel the hunger stirring. Hunger for revenge, hunger for letting Caraan Tureed off the leash again, hunger – and the soiled taste of _saidin_.

His knuckles became white around the headstone, and he pushed the thought back with a shiver. He could not let that happen again. That way lay madness, and death. He would have to do something about that.

"_Allein t'aes mera_."

It was a soft whisper, coming from nowhere and everywhere. It should have frightened him, or at least startled him, but despite himself he smiled.

"No fate," he whispered to himself, and the pictures from the portal stone rushed into his mind, pictures of a thousand lifes, a thousand times a thousand. He looked north, to the rolling lands along the banks of the river Erinin. Behind it lay Andor, and Braem Wood, and to its east, wounded Cairhien, and even further north lay the mountains of Kinslayer's Dagger, and the island in the middle of the river near Dragonmount.

"I would have settled down with Marisa, Aes Sedai," he said with a cold, grim smile. "But that was when I was still afraid to get my hands dirty. I am no longer afraid. Let's see how you like what you have created."

Lyrics by Depeche Mode

_Old Tongue = _far cab'allein moridin_, literally _Of Free Man Death, _here meaning _Man spared by Death/Free from the Grave

_allein niende en cor__,_ Man Bound To The Night

_allein t'aes mera_, Man With No Fate


	18. Wrapping Up Loose Ends

**Two Days****' Rides away from the Outfall of the River Iralell into the River Erinin,**

**Western Haddon Mirk**

**The First Week of Tammaz, 994 N.E. (New Era)**

Grief. They say 'Grief numbs the heart', but who ever coined that phrase had no idea what he was talking about. Once upon a time, there had been more than just that, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Grief. It paralyzed him as he lived through the days, flowed like ice through his veins, numbed his body and his mind. He still went to the grave beneath the apple tree every day, spending hours just sitting there, ignoring the worried looks of his friends. Anger had propelled him, mad rage had sent him on a rampage that had killed countless people, some deserving, some less so, but that had been then. Now, there was only the grief, and the knowledge that, aside from madness and death, there was nothing else waiting for him but the grief.

He felt the taint of _saidin_ every day, the cursed male half of the power calling for him in every waking moment to embrace it, dive into the soiled pit and drink from its radiance. Time and again when he sat by her grave he found himself unconsciously drawing from it, small blue balls of flame dancing over the palms of his hands like the balls of a juggler. Knowing it was wrong, knowing it eventually meant his death - but he could not evade its call.

They all knew now, of course: the villagers, his friends. Oh, they were still friendly, courteous even so, but he noticed how they looked at him when they believed he could not see them, saw the fear in their eyes when he was around, and the relief when he retreated into his cabin or to Marisa's grave. Part of him wanted to scream 'Why? Why are you turning away from me, now, when I need you most?', but there was another part that darkly reminded him that the few hundred paces between him and them were meaningless when it came to the worst.

Caraan Tureed laughed at that, of course, but the second voice in his head had developed a habit of maniacally laughing about each and every thing. It ground on his nerves, and there were moments where he wished the madness would come quick, now that he no longer could ban the twisted mind of the long dead channeler into a corner of his mind. But most the time he just sat there, watching the morning turn to noon, than into gloomy afternoon, and finally watched as the sun set in the west.

He was not alone, though, not completely. His friends were still with him: Azral, Zath, Mellen, Aryman and the others he had been closest with had not abandoned him, but even with them he could see the sorrow in their eyes when they talked to him.

It was damp outside the day Zath had sat down and finally talked some sense into him, urging him not to throw all he had achieved, all he had experienced, away. He had not gone as far as proposing to bend the knee to the Dark One to save him – Zath had revealed that Ba'alzamon could protect people from the taint – but he had also made it painfully clear that if he wanted to survive there were only those two options: the Dark One, and being gentled. And was being gentled not almost the same as making death a longer, duller process?

"I can hardly go to Tar Valon," he frowned, "not after what I have done. No, what alternatives do I have? If I go to the White Tower, there is more than small a chance they will connect the dots and link me to the death of their sisters," he explained. "But what then? Whom else can I go to? The seafolk, maybe," he mused, not really noticing that his oldest and closest friend sat beside him, watching him carefully, "but will they help me, a stranger, reclusive as they are? What do you think?" he mumbled, tilting his head. Before Zath could frame an answer, Tarmion shook his head and sighed. "As I thought, as I thought. It's not funny, you know!"

"There are rumours about an Aes Sedai that lives in Ghealdan, a legendary one by the sound of them," Zath cautiously began. Aes Sedai were not exactly the best topic to bring up around Tarmion, especially since the taint of _saidin_ had made his moodiness worse.

The tall, auburn-haired man pressed his lips tightly together, a dark shadow hanging over his face, but he motioned the half-man to continue.

"She would not know what news there are from the White Tower, and who knows how powerful she is and what allies she can draw from?" he shrugged, letting the slightest bit of hope colour his voice. "Her name is Cadsuane."

xxxxx

Cadsuane. Tarmion for what seemed like the thousandth time repeated the name in his mind. Cadsuane. He remembered Lord Logain talk about a very powerful Aes Sedai that lived not too far from his lands, and frowned. Logain, Cadsuane, Aes Sedai, Ash'aman, the Wheel – thinking about all of it evoked strange images in his mind, mostly of books and machines he found strangely familiar, as if he had worked and lived with them for a very long time, but a long time ago. Subconsciously, he knew what it was that he was thinking of, but that reality was already so far away that his conscious self no longer even took it for something that had happened outside of a dream.

Of all the players of the game, Cadsuane was one whose character and ambitions were not easily read, and while that had made him doubly cautious – she was, after all, Aes Sedai – it had also awoken his curiosity. Zath and the others meant that was a good thing. They were probably right.

The less he channelled, the slower he would succumb to the madness. At least that was what he hoped. And it was good that he was not alone. Mellen and his wife had come with them, as had Yurion, Aryman and three dozen of those who never had been happy with settling down in the end of nowhere in the first place. There still was that barrier between them and him, but at times it almost felt like the 'old' days when they had been on the road, adventuring.

Except Marisa was not there. Whenever he thought about her he felt a sting in his chest and anger in his stomach, and Caraan Tureed howled and hollered even madder than he did the rest of the time. But having returned back to a life of travelling on horseback, with all the dangers and experiences such a move brought made even the spirit from the Age of Legends bearable, if barely so.

So, back to Ghealdan it was. It seemed as if the Wheel found quite some amusement in letting him run in circles, he thought wryly. Still, they were travelling lightly, with only what they could carry on their steads and packhorses, and they made good speed. There were forty of them, the core of his old mercenary company and his closest friends. It had taken them three days to reach the river Erinin, where they had set over on a broad ferry at a small village whose name he had already forgotten. Out of the blue the mayor had decided they would not have to pay for the crossing, and on the same day there had been a spontaneous marriage and a bar brawl in which two people had been seriously injured. Two days later they had reached paths that lead them to the road that lead from Tear over Far Madding to Caemlyn. It was there that he realized for the first time that Azral had gone missing. The whole camp was in uproar that night as everybody went searching for the gnarled old man, and that uproar intensified when he re-appeared out of the blue again, tight-lipped about what had happened to him. When a new dawn was almost upon them, Tarmion pulled his father-in-law aside to talk to him alone.

"The others are afraid and upset, Azral," he told him in a soft voice. "You cannot just run off like this in the middle of the night." He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "The two of us have already lost too much. Don't make it so that I will also loose you, too," he begged him, thinking of all the death and loss he had seen and suffered during the past year.

Azral shook his bald head, the only emotions showing in his glazed eyes being sorrow and grief.

"I just went to visit her," he muttered, more to himself than to Tarmion. "Who knew if they kept putting flowers on her grave... had to make sure it's all in order."

Tarmion watched him in a stunned silence. Azral Tane was mad, but not stupidly so, and if he vanished from one moment to the other and _now_ told him he had looked after Marisa's grave there was only one explanation: that he had remembered the portal weave Tarmion himself had used to break him free! That weave was far beyond what the tall auburn-haired man could do by himself. He had only been able to channel such a complex weave in the first place because he more or less had leased his body to Caraan Tureed to do so. And for having wielded so much of the One Power, Azral looked no worse for it! After a few silent seconds, he looked the man in the eyes.

"Do you remember Ghealdan, Azral?"

The old farmer seemed to look through him as he sat there.

"Lord Logain seemed like a good man to me," he finally answered. "I liked his lands. Good for farming."

"Could you bring me there, father?" Tarmion calmly asked the father of his dead wife. "You could protect many people if you did so," he told him.

Tarmion Genda had no great urge to travel all the way back to Ghealdan, especially not with all the people that followed him. He had lost too many of them on their first way through these lands, and a group as large and well-armed as theirs was bound to attract unwanted attention, attention he would only be able to beat back by the use of _saidin_, which again, well, would attract attention...

"I think she misses you," Azral replied instead, and Tarmion unwillingly felt a knot in his stomach form, and there was a distinct wetness in the corners of his eyes.

"I miss her, too," he answered shakily, taking a deep breath to fight back the overwhelming feeling of grief. "I will not berate you when you leave to visit her," he told him softly. "In fact, I would like nothing more than to go with you, but I can't," he shook his head. "When you go again, tell her... tell her I love her," he breathed before turning his head away, afraid of his own tears.

Instead of answering him, Azral rose and simply nodded. He took Tarmion by the hand, leading him to the horses' pen where he took two saddled steads. Without any forewarning, a portal opened in the middle of the pen, the horses balking away from it. The commotion drew the attention of the camp, but before Tarmion could protest the small man pushed him through the opening with surprising strength. As fast as it had come, the portal closed behind them and he found them and their horses on a round platform that seemed to be floating inside the nothingness.

"I can take you to Ghealdan," Azral explained to him in a clear voice that was so alien to him that it took Tarmion a moment to see that the man's face was a mask of willpower and concentration very much unlike the expression he usually wore. He seemed much more aware and in control of himself and his environment when he channelled. "I can take you there," he repeated, "but I will not have myself stilled alongside you," he shook his scrawny, hairless head. "You'll have to make that last part of your path on your own."

xxxxx

The village of Willows' Grove lay on the far outskirts of the Forest of Shadows, some hundred and fifty miles north of the capital of Jehannah. Strangers were a seldom sight here, as with every village off the major roads, but the people of Willows' Grove had seen people come and go over the past decades, mostly young women and older men that looked as if their features had been chiselled from stone. They all went further North, a three hours ride closer to the forest to where what came closest to their local wisdom lived on a farmstead with some of those women and the older men. Neither the women's circle nor the village council had ever dug deeper into what they did there. The silent agreement was that one did not look a gift horse in the mouth, and that little commune had been more than helpful when hard times had befallen the village in the past. People still were afraid of them, having a pretty good idea of who they actually were, but what was there to do about it? Even if they were wilders of Aes Sedai, they had never brought the shadow down on them, hadn't they? And didn't they send some of the younger women to help with births and when people were injured? Oh yes, the men looked dangerous, but warders? That would be ridiculous, after all didn't warders fight in the Blight, wearing jewel-crusted armour?

There was so much one could find out by just having a drink and listening to what people said in the local tavern, Tarmion thought as he left the village behind, his horse trotting northwards. The lands here were much closer to what he remembered from the very first days of his long journey, more than a year past by now, and it brought back images of a time where he had been a much more innocent man. Well-tilled fields and meadows full of sheep and cattle spread on both sides of the road, time and again interrupted by low stone walls and farm houses to which approach roads led. The woods here looked more cultivated than wild, small patches of trees no larger than a square mile, and the picture continued as far as his eyes could see.

It was close to the evening hours when he finally arrived at his destination, a set of houses in a wide, soft-sloped corrie. There were barns and sheds and pens for pigs and chicken and other animals, and the fields around the houses looked as if they were regularly tilled. People were still out in the open, and he could make out at least two men who undoubtedly were warders. Each and every of their movements told him they were dangerous men and knew what they were doing. Tarmion and many others had gotten a good eye for such things. It was why they were the ones that were still alive. The women on the other hand were all young, some still girls, and they seemed to be coming from all walks of life.

As he rode his horse slowly down the path to the houses, he could feel the rage swell in him, could hear the curses and howls of Caraan Tureed echo louder and louder in his mind. He spurred his horse, and it was as if a red veil descended over his eyes.

Cadsuane only had time to gasp before she felt herself lifted from the ground and thrown against her house's door with a thwack that strained every sinew in her body to the point of breaking and sent flashes of pain through her back and her head. Dully, she thought she could feel a wet spot on the back of her head, beneath the bun held by her angreals. She tried to move, her surprise fading and being replaced by hot anger, and reached for _saidar_ - and found nothing. For a moment she felt herself overwhelmed by fear and anger. Struggling, she tried to reach out again. _Saidar_ was there, she could feel it, but it eluded her, like a fish one tried to catch barehanded.

His face was a gaunt, pale mask, a grimace of raging fury and cold hatred alike, his eyes shining to her like angry furnaces. His right arm pointed at her, his hand twisted like a claw. The other hand pointed towards Toumas, not bothering to even look into her warder's direction. Cadsuane shifted her head as much as the tight weave of air and spirit the man had woven around her permitted. Toumas was a man past his sixtieth name day, a grizzled fighter, all sinews and muscles. It spoke for him that he had been able to draw his sword from his scabbard, little good it had done him. He stood, frozen in the middle of his stride, his blade held above his head in both hands. Thick pearls of sweat trickled down his wide-eyed face, his lips moved silently, and it seemed as if all his four limbs were slowly being drawn apart, inch by inch. She looked past him, through the door and saw people frozen in the midst of their movements, held by powerful weaves of air and earth that had grabbed their feet and legs. But they all seemed to be alive!

Cadsuane turned her attention back on her attacker, and on second sight she realized how strained he looked, as if there was a fight within him that took a far higher toll on him that what he was doing to her, to them. The old Aes Sedai had always known that men could channel more raw power than women could, and this was not the first encounter she had had with _saidin_, but the effects always surprised her anew.

"Stop it!" she rasped as forceful as she could.

Surprise flashed over the man's face. She could see how he was fighting for control. Now it was him on whose forehead trickling sweat appeared.

"Stop! It!" she repeated herself, this time more forcefully.

Slowly, almost carefully he lowered his hands, and Cadsuane could feel the confines of his weaves loosening. The almost animalistic rage began to vanish from his eyes and was replaced by that was in equal parts sorrow, pain – and satisfaction. But it was not over yet. She could feel the weaves that shielded and held her waver, but the man growled at her.

"Why?" he spat. "I have nothing left to lose!" His voice wavered, surprise showing on his face, and with his voice his whole body seemed to quiver. "I have nothing left to lose!" he repeated himself, astonishment in his voice, and he had to steady himself with one hand on the table that stood in the middle of the room. "I have nothing left to lose," he muttered now, and slowly he sank to the floor, his back leaning against one of the table's legs. Suddenly, there were tears in his eyes.

"I have nothing left to lose," he stated once again, and Cadsuane felt the remains of his weaves disintegrate. She immediately cut him off from the source and ordered the women closest to her to check upon the rest of the people that lived on the farmstead. The young woman who had barely left puberty behind and looked as if she had just stood face to face with the Dark One himself rushed outside. Toumas came to his feet again and shook his head when Cadsuane gave him a questioning look.

"I'm fine," he told her. "All that's been wounded is my pride," the old warder sighed. "I will look after the others. Is he...?" he pointed at Tarmion who sat leaning against the table, his eyes glazed over while silent tears ran down his cheeks.

"All is under control now," she told him, her voice softer than usual. "He cannot touch _saidin_,"she frowned. "And we have to make it so that he never will be able to do so," she looked down on Tarmion. "That's why he is here. There's no other reason why he should be."

**The next morning.**

Tarmion had barely slept that night which was understandable as a warder and two women who clearly could wield the One Power had watched over him the whole time. He had been shielded from _saidin_ the whole time and the acute feeling of loss had been almost more than he had been able to bear. More so, he felt completely miserable for what he had done the previous day. He had tried to apologize but all it had earned him had been blank, stony stares and frightened whispers from the younger ones.

After a simply breakfast he had been lead outside into the yard where nine women waited for him. Tarmion was surprised that there were so many of them there, but the surprise was as numbed as everything else when they formed a circle around him. Not knowing what to do, he sat down on the dusty ground. Cadsuane stepped between them, and they began without any introduction. He could feel the One Power being worked around him, the hairs on his arms and chest rising. A soft hum filled his ears even though he was certain no actual sound was being made. Both effects intensified, and the look of concentration on Cadsuane's face was replaced by a deep frown. His ears began to hurt, and all of the sudden he felt as if he was being pricked by a thousand needles. He yelped, his apathy turning into anger. Instinctively he longed for the source, but it was too well-shielded against all his efforts. The pain intensified.

"What are you doing?" he moaned between heavy breaths.

"There is a... resistance," the Aes Sedai frowned, adjusting the flow of _saidar_.

A wave of pure pain hit him that moment. He thrashed around, his eyes bulging. The scream that left his throat was no longer human. It sounded like nothing Cadsuane had ever heard before, as if a thousand voices were crying from a single mouth, and it did not end. His whole body twitched, his fingernails breaking as he clawed bloody scars into the ground he lay on. He felt as if you could no longer breathe. An image of Marisa flickered before his inner eye before darkness of unconsciousness embraced him.

[I'm still here].

**Later that day.**

He awoke in a soft bed, his whole body feeling as if he had been broken on the wheel. A woman he remembered from the circle sat beside him. She almost jumped from the chair she had watched over him from and ran out of the room, calling for Cadsuane. Tarmion slowly turned his head and saw Toumas, the warder, standing beneath the doorframe. Tarmion gave him a weak nod, and the older man answered in kind before stepping outside again. A bowl of cold stew stood on the bedside locker, and despite his aching muscles he eagerly reached for it, shovelling the meat and vegetables down in no time even though a fly kept pestering him the whole time. Once the bowl was empty, he concentrated his wrath on the pesky insect, but was surprised how little he did seem to care. In fact, he felt as if all he wanted to do was to just lie down. It took him conscious effort to concentrate on the fly that still kept on landing on his face, his body and on the edge of the empty bowl. In a move that also surprised him his hand shot forward at what felt like lightning speed and he squashed the insect between thumb and index finger as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Bewildered, he looked at its remains before he flicked them away, only then flinching, realizing the pain and the bandages around his fingers.

"You caused us quite some sorrow," Cadsuane had appeared beneath the door frame. "I have taken part in some stillings in my time, but yours was unusual. I feared we might lose you," she told him earnestly.

"After what I did yesterday I thought none of you would have shed a tear about that." He had wanted to sound sarcastic but the sentence left his lips as an apology.

"It almost was as if you were trying your best to hold on even after you had fainted," she shook her head. "I've never heard of someone fighting back against being severed from the source in any active way like you did."

"But I didn't do anything!" he protested, putting himself up in the bed.

She gave him a long, considering look.

"Be that as it may, the Wheel willing you should now be safe from the madness of the taint. I would love to study your case longer, but I cannot hold you here against your will, not even after your attack," she sighed. "We took some of the gold you had on yourself," she told him. "Consider it a compensation for the trouble you've caused."

Tarmion wanted to protest again but decided against it. Given what he had done he had gotten off lightly.

"When can I leave?"

Cadsuane stepped away from the door frame.

"Whenever you want," she turned to leave but hesitated. "You are a strange man, Tarmion Genda," she mused. "There's something in you that makes you different. I hope we need not meet again," she said more to herself than to him before swirling around, leaving him in his bed, weak and confused.

He left early the next day, riding hard to the South where Azral was already waiting for him. He did his level best to fill his thoughts with images of Marisa, of his friends, of the things he wanted to do, of the things he could achieve, but the apathy and the longing for the source were everything but easy to stave off. When the portal had finished bringing the two of them back to close to from where they had left, he barely felt strong enough to explain their absence to an agitated camp.

**Three Days North of Far Madding, the Hills of Kintara **

**The Second Week of Tammaz, 994 N.E. (New Era)**

Allaron was one of a long row of villages that lined the road between Far Madding and Caemlyn like pearls. Most people here lived from the trade that passed through in one way or another, and despite having less and half a thousand inhabitants the village sported two inns. The Grey Companions had decided to water their horses and fill their own stomachs at "The Runesayer", a flat-topped inn that – with all its barns and stables - covered more ground than many a noble's mansion.

Tarmion entered the common room alone while the villagers started to gather around the group of riders that now cluttered the center of their village green. The inn was well-kept and clean, and at this time of the day only a handful of older customers were there, drinking a mug of ale or enjoying a pipe or playing a game of stones. His eyes wandered across the room from left to right before stopping right off the center as if they had been frozen in place, locked on the laughing, foppish man on whose lap a somewhat reluctant bar maid had taken a seat.

"Marek!" he called out.

"Master Genda! May the light shine on you," the young man stammered automatically, trying to sound confident and failing utterly at doing so. His smile was forced, and his hands were gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles shone through.

Tarmion's smile was broad and welcoming as he walked through the common room with easy strides to his table, leaning slightly down to the sitting man. There was something in his voice that made the bar maid jump up and leave for the kitchen. Anxiously, Marek leaned back.

"Hello Marek," he chimed in a full voice, still smiling broad and friendly.

His hand darted down, pulled the man's own long dagger from his scabbard and shoved it deep into his chest in one fluent move. Marek's whole body trembled, his hands flapping up and down uncontrollably like those of a puppet, his eyes as wide as dishes as Tarmion grabbed his shock of hair with one hand, forcing him to look him into the eyes while his other hand held the dagger in an iron grip. When the last spark of light had vanished from the dying man's eyes, Tarmion gave him one last look and sighed.

"Goodbye Marek." The traitor's head slumped back, blood dripping from the sides of his mouth in a slow, thin stream. He took the dead man's purse and emptied it on the protesting tavern owner's counter, taking one coin for himself.

"For your troubles," he told him, and the hard look in Tarmion's eyes that conflicted with his friendly voice made him shut his mouth.

Stepping outside again, he told his men to saddle their horses again against their protests.

"We can make some good miles today, and there are other inns we can rest at tonight."

"What happened inside," Zath steered his horse beside him and asked in an alarmed voice.

"Nothing," Tarmion responded. "I just got rid of some garbage."

He flipped the heavy gold coin in his hands and a plan began to form in his mind. Smiling, he turned to the men and rode to the head of the column.

"We will make a fresh start, my friend," he told Zath. "In Cairhien."

**Tarmion, Zath, Aryman, Azral and the Grey Companions will return in:**

**Shades of Grey, Book II: "Dances The Shadow".**

_I wanted to take the time to thank all who have had the patience to read this story, especially those of you who have followed it from the start. This fic is the longest piece I have written so far, and none of it would have been possible without your support and your helpful reviews. I also would like to apologize for the long periods in which it seemed this story had been abandoned. Sometimes I neither had the muse nor the time to continue it, but if you look at my profile you can see that at least I have not been completely idle. I hope I will be able to continue the storyline in Book II as soon as possible and would be delighted to welcome you again at the new adventures of Tarmion and the rest of the cast._


End file.
